


Echoes of Memory

by KittenKakt



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesiac Geralt, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Injury, Geralt makes friends, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier has Fangirls, M/M, Mentioned Yennefer of Vengerburg/OFC, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sharing a Bed, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25899538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKakt/pseuds/KittenKakt
Summary: Geralt wakes up and immediately misses the bliss of being passed out. From blood loss, probably. He doesn't really remember, but his sword arm is completely numb and he has a headache that must have been caused by an angry god. Opening his eyes is not a priority.Yes, but waking up means you are alive which is the preferred state for a Witcher to be, Geralt.Or:Geralt loses his memory and needs to figure out how he acquired a bard of all things. Most importantly, he must figure out how to keep him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 1282
Kudos: 2456





	1. Geralt Wakes Up

Geralt wakes up and immediately misses the bliss of being passed out. From blood loss, probably. He doesn't really remember, but his sword arm is completely numb and he has a headache that must have been caused by an angry god. Opening his eyes is not a priority.  
_  
Yes, but waking up means you are alive which is the preferred state for a Witcher to be, Geralt._

And he can hear that particular phrase ring through his head like a memory. Whoever said it floats just out of his grasp; like an invisible wall is guarding them from his thoughts. Perhaps he could remember when the army of knives stops clawing bits of his brain out. Fuck, but it hurts. 

Even with that he can smell that he is currently laying in a swamp, heavy moist air and loamy earth. Maybe a bog, but a swamp seems more likely as he can smell Kikimora entrails. Quite well actually. Enough that he must have struck a killing blow before passing out. Good.

Taking stock of the situation, Geralt focuses through the pain and listens. He is very clearly still under the influence of Cat; he still has the aftertaste on his tongue. He can hear the beat of insect wings over the water and what sounds like small rodents scurrying through the soggy leaf litter away from the swamp. He can hear the water ripple. He can hear the drip of the slain beast's blood as it hits the ground. He can hear a horse picking their way through the underbrush. Walking nearer actually, but his body doesn't tense. It sounds like Roach.

“Come on pretty girl, let's go and get your daddy hmm? Just a little more Roach, I promise.”

Geralt can hear the voice talking softly to Roach. It's probably just a villager making sure that he has completed the contract. Or coming to see if he had died and they can keep their coin. Geralt doubted anyone who truly wanted him dead would be coaxing his horse as they walked.

Wait.

He can only hear Roach's steps. So either she is accompanied by a ghost or that voice is RIDING her. No one touches Roach. Shit. He moves his working arm around a bit and finds the dagger on his hip. His sword is not immediately available so laying still and ambushing the voice if they are hostile is his best plan.

He hears the horse and rider emerge from the brush and the rider fling themselves from the saddle. Judging by the sound of the impact they did not achieve a graceful landing. The probability of a proficient attack is somewhat lower.

“I swear to the gods Geralt, if you have died I will journey to the underworld and drag you back to kill you myself for leaving me.” The voice sounded equal parts worried and frustrated.

Oh. That is not the phrase of someone who wants him dead. They are coming closer and smell of human and Roach and surprisingly Geralt himself. It is a comforting combination, but Geralt doesn't know why.

“I live.”

The voice cups his cheek and his eyes react. This is bad, humans react badly when confronted with things used to keep them safe. His very black, non-human eyes fly open. Very blue eyes look back full of relief. He KNOWS they are blue; his vision is still grayscale from the Cat, yet he knows the correct shade of blue. Why?

“Still hopped up on Witcher-ey potions then?” He runs his thumb across Geralt's cheek in a comforting gesture. No shock, no fear, only a statement of fact. Most humans would recoil from his inhuman visage. “That's alright, let's get a look at you. Where are you hurt?”

Without those blue, probably blue, eyes staring into his Geralt tries to think. The voice, no man, is wrapped in Geralt's traveling cloak and it makes him look small. He also looks, and smells, very clean for being in a swamp. He lightly touches Geralt, moving bits of armor to see if any of the blood is Geralt's own. The hands stop near his shoulder. Might as well admit the injury, he will find it soon enough.

“Arm's numb. And my head feels as if it's trying to split itself into parts.”

“Hold on, let me go and get you a pain potion.” The man is already moving away and kissing to Roach. Who moves to meet him. What is going on? His medallion has been still, so this is not magic. As bizarre as this situation is, none of his instincts are telling him to be wary. In fact, his body wants to relax, like the danger has fully passed.

“Gods, Geralt. Would it kill you to label these potions? I swear one day it might. You're going to mistake a sword oil and a Golden Oriole and then die. Then where would we be, hmm? I'm going to take up the dying of cork as a hobby and see if stoppering the bottles in different colors helps me differentiate the brownish blue potion from the brownish purple one." He sounds put-upon but not angry, like a mother ensuring her small child has shoes on the correct feet.

A few more clinking noises and the man exclaims, “A-ha! I've got it. Well it's either the pain potion or the berry flavoured intimate oil that I purchased a few towns ago. Same viscosity actually. I don't know why that is.” The man pauses and considers the vial. “However if this smells of currant perhaps let me know and don't drink it. It is supposed to be edible but I doubt the maker intended for the oil to be drunk and it would do nothing for the headache.”

The man uncorks the vial and it is clearly a pain reliever. Geralt makes a move to take it from him but the potion is already at his lips and being fed to him by gentle hands. It tastes like shit.

“Tastes like shit.”

“Oh good, means it is the right one after all. Put one point up for the bard. Actually, put two points up for the bard as I did not get lost coming to locate you.”

“That would be a point for Roach,” Geralt corrects automatically. 

“Fair," The Bard agrees easily. "Give it a minute to work and I'll take you back to camp.”

“Need my sword.”

“Yes, yes, it's over there where you sliced the beastie's head clean off. Very impressive, as usual. I'll get it once you are sorted.” The man is smoothing Geralt's matted hair down as best he can in the dark; it's nice no longer to have it stuck to his face. As usual?

“And the head for payment,” because Geralt almost died and his head hurts; he is getting his fucking coin. 

“Geralt! It's filthy," he complains. Shocked and offended at having to touch the dirty thing, but not at having to touch a Witcher. A Witcher who is lying in the same mud as the offending object. Surprising. The Bard sighs. “I will stick it in the oilcloth and tie it to Roach but only because I have a deep affection for you and I cannot bear to escort you back to town to have you pout about your lack of trophy. Actually did they even request the head as proof? Are you sure I have to touch it?"

“I...” Geralt doesn't remember. Actually, now that the pain has dulled, he notices he doesn't remember a lot of things. “Better to take it and it be unneeded than having to come back to avoid being cheated of payment.”

“Ugh, the things that I do for you,” The Bard grumbles. Geralt watches The Bard throw an oilcloth over the severed head and holding the silver sword in both hands, use the flat of it to nudge the head in. It looks ridiculous, has this man ever held a sword in his life?

“What are you doing?”

“Well if I don't have to touch it why would I? Honestly...” he smacks the head a few more times, he really does look entirely ridiculous with his rear sticking out like that, before grabbing the oilcloth's drawstring and cinching it tight. “There! Two points for the bard!” he exclaims in triumph.

“Hmm.” The Bard drags the sack over to Roach and ties it to her saddle. He fastens the sword as well before heading to Geralt.

“Alright, up you get.” The Bard, who went to great lengths to avoid touching the head, seems to have no problem pulling a bloody witcher up into his arms and catching him against his chest when his leg fails. 

“Melitele Geralt, warn a man!”

“Leg's injured.”

“Clearly," he says flatly. "You are very funny. Roach, come here, be a pretty girl and help me with this.”  
Roach again listens to the man and stands stock still as a combination of Geralt pulling with his good arm and The Bard lifting his ass manages to get Geralt across her back like a sack of potatoes. After making sure there is no pressure on any of his injuries, they set off, The Bard leading Roach and Geralt slung over her saddle in a most undignified manner. 

Geralt has a little time to think while they make their way back to camp. Obviously, he has lost more time than just a few days. He has taken a traveling companion, _a bard_ of all things, and gotten to know him well enough even Roach listens to him. He turns his head and looks at his cloak, knows him well enough to let him wear his cloak or that the man feels comfortable enough to wear it without permission. It looks... not wrong on him.

He hadn't had a traveling companion since he and Eskel ended up meeting by accident in Beauclair and travelled to Kaer Morhen together for the winter. That was nice, but Witchers were meant to walk the Path alone. Yet, here he is with a bard that knows his horse and his potions and wears his clothes and isn't afraid even if Geralt looks every inch the mutant that he is. Either The Bard lacks self preservation instincts or they have travelled together long enough Geralt's otherness had become normal. Geralt wonders how long that takes. 

"Come on you big oaf, down you get, you only have to get down and not fall," The Bard soothes as he catches Geralt on his slide off of Roach. He catches what weight the good leg doesn't and helps him the pace or so to the bedroll next to the fire. "Easy now, let's get you horizontal on purpose this time."

He makes it to the bedroll, The Bard kneeling next to it to unlace Geralt's boots. Then, very strangely The Bard reaches for the laces of his trousers. "No," he manages to growl out and grabs for The Bard's hands.

"Don't be ridiculous, Witcher. You cannot get into bed with all this ichor on you. It's not like I can order a bath in the wilderness and you are in no shape to go to town." He slaps Geralt's hands away, uncaring those hands are deadly weapons themselves, "I am taking off your pants so you don't dirty our blankets or else." 

"Hmm," he responds. It seems strange that nothing about this scenario bothers him. Intellectually, he knows he should be protesting, but he lets The Bard strip his pants then work on removing his armor and ruined shirt. He talks the entire time, mostly complaints about the amount of laundering the clothes will take.

"Or should we even bother Geralt? I know you are a fan of these particular garments but I promise to choose something more fashionable and almost as practical when we find a decent tailor. I will even cede to keeping with your preferred palette of black on black on black."

"No, you spend enough time undressing me." Why did he feel the need to say that? 

"You are, in fact, terrible. Now lie back for a moment while I go tend to Roach. Then I will finish tending to you." The Bard wraps him up in blankets and tells him to "be good for ten minutes." The Bard removes Geralt's cloak to add to the pile, revealing a watered silk doublet and pants in what Geralt is sure is a flashy color. He nudges a bucket of water close to the fire on his way to unsaddle Roach.

It hurts too much to look across the fire where they are, the Cat should be done soon, so he settles into the bedroll. Singular bed roll. And the ridiculous amount of blankets that have been piled upon him. They smell of comfort and safety and also, The Bard. He surreptitiously sniffs the blankets. Himself and The Bard together, and the scents of traveling, and then he gets a faint trace of his own spend and what he would stake his life is The Bard's spend. 

Oh, that would explain some things. 

Like why there is intimate oil in his potion bag.

It's not THE Bard; it is HIS bard.

Actually, it explains very little if Geralt looks at the larger picture. He now knows he and his bard have been bedfellows. Also, he knows they have been for a long time. The scent of himself and his bard in the blankets has a fresh layer, not more than a couple of days old, but their spend is an old scent. It makes sense, not to dirty the bedrolls when they have no convenient way to launder them. But his bard smells so clean, they must have recently patronized an inn. Maybe humans are more tolerant of a Witcher if he has a human companion to act as a buffer.

How did he take a human lover anyway? He is no stranger to whorehouses and paying for sex, but clearly, his bard is no whore. His voice as he sings to Roach is soothing and of a quality that indicates professional training. Maybe Geralt saved him and they fell into bed together and never stopped. Maybe he heard his bard sing and tried to woo him? That is unlikely, Geralt has no idea how to be a soft and caring lover. How to keep someone for more than a few days.

Unless… has he learned and then forgotten? 

All he truly knows at this point is that he has been in a sexual relationship with his bard for some months and he is wrapped up in their shared bedroll. All he can hope is his memories return as he heals and he won't have to hurt his lover by admitting he doesn't remember him. 

His bard finishes with Roach and comes back, pulling the warmed bucket of water next to him. He has changed his own clothes, into just a simple chemise and a pair of braies, suitable for sleeping. "Now, dear Witcher, I must ask that you not fuss. I need to clean off the worst of the gore so we can actually tell the extent of the damage." 

Geralt just looks at him. Oh, his eyes are actually blue now. His mind did supply the correct shade before. It's beautiful. His bard is beautiful. 

"Do as you will," he chooses to answer. 

His bard immediately wipes his face clean in the same manner a mother would use on a messy toddler. He glares at his bard.

"Oh hush, you said 'do as you will' and my will is making you clean. Then I'm going to examine that gash in your shoulder and see if you need stitches and you will behave."

Geralt growls a bit, just out of instinct and his bard gently swats his nose with the towel. Geralt feels no need to retaliate. He then moves on to washing Geralt's chest and arms like nothing happened. Obviously, Geralt has learned to be careful and not terrify him. He is going to have to remember to be soft so when he gets his memory back his bard is still here. Not undo whatever work his other-self, his REAL self with it's intact memory, has done. 

His bard hums as he works, methodically cleaning Geralt and rinsing the rag. "You can, umm, sing if you want. My head hurts less." Geralt hopes this is the right thing to say.

His bard stops and looks at him. Then he seems to recover himself and asks, "anything you would specifically like to hear?"

"Hmm," Geralt replies because he doesn't want to admit he remembers none of the songs his bard sings.

"How about I sing the one about when you were swallowed by the Selkimore outside of Cintra and killed it from the interior? I know you like that one even if you don't admit it. The alderman's face though, when you walked in the tavern, fully alive, covered in grime was amazing. I had just told him you would be fine, but he did not believe me. As if you would do something so rude as to die when I needed you."

His bard stopped as he reached the injured shoulder. "Oh, this is bad Geralt. It's going to hurt like a bitch. Try not to kill me." And with that, he uncorks another vial with his teeth and tips a portion of the contents on the shoulder wound.

Geralt tenses and screams. That was most certainly the correct potion for the situation. He knows it was for the best but that didn't mean it felt good. "Fuck." He falls back against the bedroll. 

"Hopefully that is the worst of it," his bard sounds sympathetic and again, not scared.

"Fuck."

"Quite. Shall we get on with it?" His bard doesn't wait for an answer, resuming cleaning the grime from Geralt and singing the promised song. His bard is talented, especially if he also composed this song; it's clever. Geralt considers himself fortunate to have somehow won his attention. 

Geralt lets himself drift, listening to his bard's lovely voice. Is this his life now, soft songs and gentle touches? It is a long way from the hatred humans showed from him after word spread from Blaviken. Whatever he has done to get here, it must have been a good thing.

Eventually, his bard reaches the leg injury and upends the remainder of the vial onto it. It did not feel pleasant, he tenses and instinctively clutches at his bard, but doesn't scream again. He manages to keep his vocalizations to growling only. The kikimora must have caught his whole side with its claws, but did not slice as deep here, as it hurts less than the shoulder.  
Geralt carefully lets go of his bard and glances at his leg. "That should be healed by morning."

"Good you can ride Roach into town then. Well ride her in a more dignified manner. Not that I would mind much, looking at your lovely bottom on the way into town," he teases.

"Bard," he warns before he can stop himself. He is rewarded with a face that clearly said that he was no fun. "Go back to your singing."

His bard looks stunned for a minute before recovering. "All that's left is trying to do something about your hair anyway." He shuffles around next to Geralt's head and pulls it to rest in this lap. He gently wipes the white strands while singing something about tossing coins.

Geralt finds it soothing, until he hits something that causes a sharp pain. "Geralt," his bard sounds truly worried, "there is a large clot up here, over the bad shoulder. I am afraid to dislodge it because of its location and size. I am no trained healer so please, I beg of you, let me take you to a healer in the morning."

His bard is running his hands through the hair on the uninjured side of Geralt's head and is staring at the opposite side with terror. "If it pains me in the morning, I will go."

"Geralt…" his bard is still staring at his temple. He feels tense where Geralt was resting against him, probably worrying about Geralt's wellbeing. Perhaps the creature caught his head when it got his shoulder. His bard will worry all night if Geralt does nothing to reassure him. Fuck.

"If I will agree to go, will you lay down and sleep?"

"Yes," his bard lets out the breath he had been holding. His head is eased from his bard's lap and he disappears to go do something with the dirty water, leaving Geralt to wait for him in the bedroll.

Geralt hears him come back but not to the bed. His bard is dithering not far from the bedroll, his face unsure. "Come lay down on my uninjured side, it will be fine," he says as he lifts the edge of the blankets.

His bard meekly approaches and lays down tensely. Geralt must have done something wrong, something the real him would not have done. Maybe he had been too gruff when demanding he come to bed. If he had a lover, or a lover he remembers, he would hold them in the night, he thinks. 

He reaches out with his good arm, pulling his bard over. Instinctively a head full of brown hair is pillowed on his good shoulder and a soft arm draped carefully over his torso. That must have been the thing that real Geralt would have done. "You won't hurt me, my bard. Get some rest," Geralt says gently.

Geralt brushes a soft kiss against the top of his bard's head.


	2. Geralt Wakes Up, Again

Geralt wakes up, again. He still feels terrible; his head feels like knives are slicing against his brain and his shoulder aches. The leg only feels a little stiff; the healing potion must have done its job. 

His bard is awake and still curled into his body with his head resting on Geralt's chest. Geralt must have held him all night. He smells anxious and his fingers are tapping a rhythm into the blankets next to Geralt's hip. The hazards of lying with a musician he supposes, a constant stream of music. How many times has he woken up with his bard humming to him? Geralt still can't remember. Fuck.

Lying still and pretending to still sleep, Geralt tries his best to remember anything about his current situation. Nothing new. He remembers the simple existence before his companion, being feared and hated in the same manner as the monsters he hunts. He remembers waking up last night after the fight with the monster. The rest is still frustratingly blank.

Geralt kisses his bard's hair, because if one is waking up with their longtime companion, it is a logical morning greeting. His head hurts a little less after bestowing that kiss, so Geralt will assume that it is his brain rewarding him for falling into expected patterns.

"Geralt! You're awake." His bard pushes up onto his elbows to look down at him. Geralt uses his now-free hand to rub his bard's side gently, because he should be reassuring and humans probably like to be petted. It always worked for a horse. "How are you feeling this morning? Other than cuddly, that is."

"Hmm," he takes stock of his body, "that leg is stiff but should bear weight. The arm is better too; it hurts this morning," Geralt reports. Hurting is better than the numbness from last night, although it is more uncomfortable. 

His bard doesn't look reassured. "I still want someone qualified to have a look at that head wound. The morning light does it no favors."

Fuck. Geralt hates seeing healers, they charge too much and never know how to mend a Witcher. They're good for bartering potion and poison supplies. He keeps petting his bard, trying to smooth away his worried look. "I'll go if it will set your mind at ease."

His bard lets out a breath that shifts Geralt's hair. "Okay, that's good. We'll get dressed and pack up camp and see the healer in town." His bard shifts, looks annoyed and then stops. "Witcher, if we are going to get started back to town, you have to let me leave the bedroll."

Geralt had forgotten he was still holding on. He lets go and his bard springs away, gathering what Geralt can now see is a brilliant-blue watered silk doublet and matching trousers, beautiful embroidery decorating the collar and cuffs. Since his bard is putting on trousers, Geralt should probably get up.

Geralt stretches a bit, trying to work the stiffness from his leg before he manages to stand. Moving his shoulder is still distinctly unpleasant, but he won't need to use it to ride. If his head would quiet down, he would be in acceptable shape.

"Come on, I brought your spare clothes. I had guessed the ones you hunted in would end up covered in monster innards or blood or otherwise unwearable," his bard is now fully dressed and shaking a pair of pants at him Geralt obligingly pulls them on, wincing from the pain of using his bad shoulder.

"You said you were better, Geralt," his bard snaps, already kneeling and reaching to pull the pants up over his hips. Geralt fights off the desire to slap his bard's hands away, but stops, remembering the night before. His bard must routinely help him dress when he's injured, or just as a demonstration of care perhaps? Regardless, you don't slap away the hands of your lover unless you want them to know you've lost your memory.

"At least from down here I can see you weren't stoically powering through your leg injury. This slash on your thigh is fully closed." His bard runs his hand over the newly formed scar. His hands are soft; 5he touch is nice. That done, his bard tucks away Geralt's personal bits with little fanfare and starts fastening up the pants. "Hopefully you can ride properly into town. Come now let me help you into this shirt lest every male-attracted person in town fall down and worship your pectorals."

"No one will care about my pectorals Bard, except perhaps you," Geralt replies from somewhere in his shirt fabric. It earns him an admonishing slap to one of them. A flowing shirt is difficult to navigate when every time it touches his shoulder and his head it is uncomfortable. Eventually, using their combined three working arms, he emerges and is suitably dressed.

Geralt steps into his boots and his bard shoves a dagger into his hands. "Can you just... look after that for me while I get Roach ready, I don't want to accidentally poke myself with it while fussing with the bedroll." His bard stares at him intently as he takes the proffered dagger. Geralt grasps it by the hilt and his bard visibly relaxes, going off to saddle Roach.

Geralt inspects the dagger; it is objectively beautiful. The handle is silver, with a snarling wolf decorating the pommel, an intricate and functional leather grip, and a chain of flowers in relief wrapping around and under the guard. Geralt pulls it from its sheath and finds a finely crafted silver blade. He checks the maker's mark and it confirms his suspicions. The maker of the blade was the weaponsmith that crafts silver blades for Wolf Witchers. Geralt has fought with too many of his blades to mistake the maker's mark.

In general, only monster hunters carry silver weapons. The grip and weight of the dagger are too small and light for any Witcher Geralt has ever met, so he doubts the smith would have made it in anticipation of a future sale. He doubts any of his brothers would opt for a floral embellishment if they commissioned it. So Geralt must have commissioned this dagger as a gift for his bard. To keep him safe if Geralt was elsewhere. To be perfectly honest, he is not sure why he opted for the floral decoration, but it must have been intentional on his part. This was not the kind of gift given to a casual lover, or even a good friend; it would take planning and no small expense to bring forth. 

Fuck. 

Did he really have to forget the giving of a betrothal gift?

Geralt reassesses, he is probably missing a couple of years. At least. He must have travelled to Kaer Morhen at least one winter to have stopped by that particular blacksmith. Did he take his bard with him? Do they go every winter? Does he fit there, with the cold stone walls and inhuman mutants? Do his songs make the empty halls less so?

Fortunately for Geralt, his bard has finished striking camp and takes the dagger from him, strapping it on. Also fortunate, Geralt is able to mount Roach with little issue. His bard is looking up at him expectantly, like Geralt should lead them back to town. And Geralt SHOULD, Witchers have an excellent sense of direction. Which, unfortunately for Geralt, requires an intact memory.

"I have to admit, I do not know the way," he admits, looking at Roach's ears. 

Geralt glances down at his bard, who is looking up with his worry back in full force. His bard takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "That's ok. We're ok. It's all gonna be fine," he said, almost to himself. Geralt can see him steel himself before clapping his hands together and reaching a hand up. "Alright we need to get you to a healer. Come on, help me up."

Geralt slides back, surrendering the stirrups and seat. Once they are both on Roach, his bard grasps her reins and they set off. Geralt wraps his good arm around his bard's waist to help with balance, and to be close, like lovers should. With little to focus on, he is acutely aware of the pain in his head again. He closes his eyes and rests his head on the other man's shoulder.

His bard feels tense and still smells of concern and anxiety. He should talk and give his bard something to focus on. Any number of topics would be appropriate, if only Geralt knew enough to hold up his bit of the conversation. He could talk about the woods Roach is obligingly carrying them through, but that runs the risk of bringing up his missing sense of direction, not a good choice. 

Maybe he should ask his bard to sing again, he really does have the best voice and Geralt enjoys his singing. Or maybe ask about his music in general. His bard most likely plays an instrument, he was tapping out a rhythm while Geralt slept after all.

"What were you working on this morning?" Geralt tries for a conversational tone, but he sounds awkward to even his own ears. Real Geralt must have figured this out long ago. He misses his memories all over again.

"What was that?" His bard sounds distracted, like Geralt pulled him out of deep thought.

"You were tapping the blanket when I woke, like playing a melody," Geralt prompts. Maybe Geralt was mistaken and his bard only sings. Which, to be fair, is all he needs to do because his voice is lovely. The tapping though, he rhythmically alternated fingers, indicating an instrument. Hopefully he has not said anything to cause further concern. 

"Oh, not anything much. Just maybe thinking of turning the wyvern incident into a song. You know the one where I was FINALLY winning at Gwent in the good tavern in Posada, not the shitty tavern we met in, those people have no taste. We are never going back there even if it has your favorite memories of me making an ass of myself trying to get your attention. Anyway, I was legitimately WINNING at Gwent when some clever Witcher chased a wounded wyvern from the woods and it came in the tavern window and landed on my table. Because that deserves to be a song, the Gwent-hating wyvern."

"You're making that up," he hedges. It doesn't sound like his bard is lying, not completely anyway, but Geralt's sure his life isn't quite that dramatic.

"Alright, so maybe I am. Artistic license. But honestly Geralt, allowing the wyvern to make it within viewing of the window meant no one was concentrating on the game, which I was WINNING, did I mention that? Everyone needed to go watch the White Wolf be heroic. And you were. But my game Geralt …" he trailed off in a dramatic whine.

That version Geralt could picture clearly. His bard coming out of a tavern, his hand full of cards, to admonish Geralt for being reckless on a hunt. Standing on the edge of town in front of the slain beast while his bard fusses and wipes blood from his face. His bard was in blue, but a different one, pale like the sky. That feels right. Maybe it was, in fact, a memory.

"You were in paler blue than this." If Geralt is wrong, he can play it off as his lack of attention to fashion. But if he was right, at least he will know his memories are in there somewhere.

"So I was," his bard sounds surprised. "I didn't think you thought my clothes were worth remembering."

Geralt could not stop himself from responding, "you are always worth remembering." 

"Am I Geralt?" He sounded annoyed and slightly angry. Almost as if he is expecting an apology. Oh no. Real Geralt fucked up something at some point that involved leaving the bard somewhere. Probably. Or maybe he forgot a birthday, or an anniversary. Or a performance. Time is hard when you're three-fourths of the way to immortal. 

Geralt is not exactly surprised that he has fucked something up recently enough that his bard is still cross with him. Geralt is not the best with people and he is sure to somehow offend anyone who stays in his company too long. Other Witchers aren't much less coarse, except perhaps Eskel, and he causes no real offense. His bard is human though, and Geralt needs to try and make it right.

"Yes," he replies, placing an apology kiss to the collar in front of him. Apology kisses are what human lovers do, so it's likely he had picked up the habit. It's probably best he does such things and doesn't make things harder for himself when he gets his memory back. It is no hardship, after all, to be affectionate with an attractive man.

At that, his bard cranes his neck to glance back at Geralt suspiciously. Geralt aims for looking sincere about the sentiment, which would hopefully hide that he didn't know what he was apologizing for. 

His bard stares a long moment before turning back to Roach. "Alright," he whispers to himself.

Geralt should try distracting him again. "Can you tell me about your new composition?"

This time it works, his bard chattering on about meter and rhyme structure and lyrical progression, too fast for Geralt to follow. His bard seems happier and less tense, which is good. Geralt tucks his head into his bard's neck and relaxes. Hopefully they will get to town before his bard is done with his explanation.


	3. A Healer Visit

His bard does, in fact, talk until they get to town. At least until they get to the edge of it. Between the musical theory and his pounding head, Geralt couldn't follow as much of it as he would have liked, but he could happily ride along behind his bard and listen to him talk forever.

The town appears between one step and the next, heavy, shady forest giving way to sturdy, simple buildings and open air. The first people Geralt sees are three boys playing on the edge of the wood, something to do with tossing acorns at each other.

"Bard Jaskier," the smallest boy calls and rushes over to them, "is it dead?"

A second boy crowds in, tapping his bard's boot. "Did the Witcher kill it? Will you write a song about it?" 

"Are we safe? Should I go get my father?" asks the first one again. 

His bard makes to get off the horse but Geralt holds on to him. He would prefer his bard safely on horseback until he knows their reception from the adults in town. He can't remember if he already should know; nothing here is familiar. His bard seems a bit cross with him, but settles back in the saddle. 

"Yes, boys, the beastie is dead. However, it was quite fearsome and the White Wolf was injured defending the good people here from its murderous impulses. If you could direct me to your healer, we would be most grateful," he bard requests, perfectly polite despite the young age of the boys standing by his boot.

The first boy looks like an overeager puppy, bouncing up and down on his toes. "I'll go and tell my Father," he declares and runs off into town.

The second boy nods, "and I will go and tell Papa." He directs the statement to the last boy and runs off in the same direction.

The remaining boy looks after them disapprovingly. "Sorry about them. They're little... and excitable. I'll take you over to Gosia's place." As he speaks, Geralt realizes that he is actually a mostly-grown teenager, old enough to steer the littler boys from potential trouble in the woods.

His bard, Jaskier maybe is his name, nods and the teen places a gentle hand on Roach's bridle to direct her. "Then I can take Roach back to the stables if you like."

"You met her yesterday I suppose?" his bard asks conversationally.

"Actually, I met her when Master Witcher brought her in for boarding a couple of days ago. Papa runs the stables. Mama won't let him help in the inn anymore, cause he keeps sitting down and chatting instead of minding the bar like he's supposed to. That's where Erwin ran off to; to tell Papa that Roach is coming back. If he has any sense, he'll let Mama know so she can see about the room." He rubs the back of his neck. "I suppose that's asking a lot; I'll let her know when I get there. I'm Emil, by the way," he says and gives a little wave.

"Where did the other one go?" Geralt asks, because he might as well know who will show up to harass him out of town.

"Oh, he's the alderman's son. Gone to tell him you killed the beast. As if you wouldn't go 'round to the office once Gosia looked you over." Emil seems unafraid and unbothered to be talking with a Witcher, which is odd, but not unwelcome.

"In that case, I do believe we met his sister when we got to town." His bard is smiling, Geralt can hear it in his voice.

Emil laughs, "I think everyone knows you met her. She hasn't shut up about Master Witcher and her kitten since. I think I've heard her tell it at least three times."

Fuck. Cats hate him. Geralt hopes he didn't do something awful, like scaring a kitten to death or making it run off into the woods to be eaten by any number of predators. He's not gonna get paid if he upset the girl, which is bad considering he has a bard who smells clean and wears fine silk. He presses his nose back into his bard's neck, maybe Geralt still has enough coin in his purse to cover a few nights at the inn. 

His bard makes a joke about not needing another storyteller in town. Emil smiles and keeps up the conversation while leading them down a path, and tactfully doesn't ask what injury the Witcher has. The street that they're on isn't busy, or much of a street in fact. It's more of a large cleared walking path. None of the handful of people they pass jeer or yell anything other than to ask if things were alright. Most people wave. This is a very strange town.

Emil steers Roach off the road and into a yard. Almost all of the space was covered with plants and herbs that Geralt knows are useful in potions and poultices and healing teas, with footpaths just wide enough to allow for tending the garden. A woman stops pulling weeds and raises her hand to block the morning sun.

"Emil, you've brought me two men and a horse. Please tell me the horse doesn't need treatment," she states flatly, wiping her hands on her skirts and coming over.

"Not this time," Emil replies, holding Roach still so they could dismount.

His bard hops down from Roach. "Hello madam! I am Julian Alfred Pankranz, better known as the bard Jaskier. I don't know if you caught my performance in the inn two nights ago?" he trails off for a moment, obviously hoping for an acknowledgement he does not receive. He recovers easily, and continues on, "however, my companion is in need of a healer's services and Emil was kind enough to lead us to your doorstep." 

His bard, Julian/Jaskier, is charming and smooth in this introduction, displaying the affectations that growing up in noble society might afford him. Maybe he did. Geralt doesn't remember; it would explain the clothes, but not why he would spend any of his time on Geralt though. His name does explain the decoration on his dagger at least.

"I'm Gosia. If you need patching up, I'm better than average." She turns her big brown eyes on Geralt, "can't say I've ever looked over a Witcher before, but you're breathing and awake so chances are I'll be of some use. Get on in, I'll tend what needs it," she says, gesturing to the front door.

Geralt still does not want to go to the healer. She seems fine enough, if he were a man, but he is not and she admitted to not having treated a Witcher before. This is going to be a waste of time and money. They should just leave.

"Jaskier," he does his best to impart the name with all the thoughts passing through his brain. The name comes naturally to his tounge and it must be the correct choice.

His bard, Jaskier, turns to him. "Oh no, White Wolf. Don't even think about it. We have struck a bargain and you will not back out on it now. Down you get and in you go before I must drag you thus." His bard accompanies this with shoo-ing hand gestures and a pointed look.

Geralt feels helpless to resist. He slides down to land in front of Jaskier, and is pleased when his bard rewards him with a smile, and then gives him a light push in the direction of the door. Geralt allows himself to be herded into the house by Gosia the healer and listens to his bard grabbing the potion bag, which also contains their intimate oils, because this is Geralt's life now, and what sounds like a coin purse. A glance back informs him that it was indeed a purse and his bard is paying Emil for his trouble. It doesn't look to be a thin purse, perhaps they are doing well enough not to worry about the cost of a healer today.

The healer points to a low table, big enough to hold a man and says "there." He sits and she stares at him a moment, not quite meeting his inhuman eyes, but not avoiding looking at him altogether. She gently taps near his head wound.

"Fuck," he says, flinching. That hurts more than it should.

"That looks a complete mess. You're probably gonna lose some of the hair around it by the time I'm done cleaning it. Anything else?"

"He has a nasty shoulder injury and previously had a leg wound, but the Witcher potions seemed to have served their purpose and healed that one overnight," his bard answers from the doorway. The potion bag is slung over one shoulder.

"Alright, let me start something for his head and then I'll look at his shoulder." She is already moving to rinse the dirt from her hands and gather herbs that are stuffed away in ceramic jars or hanging in drying bunches around the house to throw into a kettle. "Get him out of that shirt."

"I can take off my own shirt," Geralt grouses.

"Only if your flexibility has greatly improved since this morning," his bard waits for the protest that Geralt can't rightly give. Geralt sighs. Jaskier looks smug, "I thought so, now let's show this lovely woman where the vile thing touched you."

Geralt wants to tell him he is completely over dramatic and that Geralt will be fine. But his bard is smirking and looks pleased with himself. "You're ridiculous."

"Never," Jaskier replies all false shock and indignation. He then proceeds to ease Geralt's shirt off, throwing it over his own shoulder.

Gosia returns and Geralt can smell the herbal concoction heating over the fire. She prods the top of his shoulder, at least a hand's width from the injury. Geralt tenses, because fuck that hurts still. 

"You said this happened last night?" she asks, mostly of his bard.

"Yes, his bard replied. "We cleaned it up as best we could in the dark and used one of Geralt's mystery Witcher potions on it. Given the light, I decided to not try and stitch it."

"And it's better," Geralt asserts. 

"Yes, because wretched pain is a vast improvement over completely numb. It is still an injury worth tending and we are at a healer, Geralt," his bard adds as if Geralt is missing fundamental concepts.

"I think it's probably as good as you could've done," she says, evaluating the injury. "The healing has set in and I don't think stitches would be productive at this point. I've got some numbing cream that would help with the pain on the shoulder, and he'll need to wear a sling until that gap closes up, no sense tearing it open again or he _will_ need those stitches."

She looks thoughtful for a moment. "If he were an ordinary man I would say he would need a sling for a few weeks. I'm not sure how long a Witcher will need one. But he should rest it as long as possible, lest he do more damage."

Gosia walks to a cabinet and removes a pot of salve from amongst several identical little pots. She scoops a little on a cloth and dabs it around the wound. To Geralt's complete surprise, the area doesn't go exactly numb but the intensity of the pain lessens significantly.

"How's that?" She doesn't wait for an answer, turning away and grabbing the kettle from the fire and pouring it into a basin.

"It's better," Geralt admits begrudgingly.

"Thought so. Go ahead and lie on your side. Bard, go sit by his head, and get comfortable; this might be a while," Gosia orders.

Geralt grumbles a bit but lays down, his bard perching in such a way his feet are resting on the floor at Geralt's head and Geralt has a nice view of the seam of his trousers. He can hear the healer moving behind him, opening a few more cabinets and moving around with the basin. Eventually he can feel her come to rest at his back.

"Now Witcher," she says in utmost sincerity, "I'm going to need you to hold on to your bard."

"What?"

"What?" 

At least they both sound equally confused.

"Hold on to your bard," she repeats the phrase slowly, emphasizing each word as as if Geralt is a bit stupid. Then she continues normally, "I have been doing this a long time and I've learned the folks that wanna be in here the least are the biggest problems when it comes to treating 'em. So, if you're holding on to your bard you're not moving around and hindering progress. So wrap your arms around him and stay still. You're not gonna hurt him."

Geralt can't fault her logic so he puts an arm under his bard's knees and wraps the other across his lap. Maybe if he does what she wants they can leave sooner. Also he can hardly protest an excuse to cuddle his lover without sounding ungrateful. He glances up to find his bard watching him with concern. However, that didn't last long.

"Bard," Gosia starts, "I need you to hold all this hair back." Geralt can feel an unfamiliar hand start gathering the hair on his head. "Keep all this out of what I'm working on and it'll go better."

"Alright." Jaskier's familiar hand slides into his hair, gathering it gently above his head. He wants to relax, like Jaskier's hands belong there.

"I'm gonna cut as much of this mess away as I can. Don't freak out if you feel the blade; I'm not gonna cut _you_." She shifts her focus to Jaskier. "Put your other hand over this eye. I don't wanna have to go about cleaning this mud out of a second place."

"Unfortunately, I found him lying in a bog," Jaskier replies, like Geralt does that for fun. Jaskier's free hand carefully covers Geralt's eye, dimming most of the available light. Geralt closes his eyes and waits; his bard is watching the healer for him. 

"Of course I was in a bog, the monster was in a bog," Geralt grumbles. He can feel the drag of a sharp blade against his temple, at least the healer is gentle.

"That didn't mean you needed to take a nap in it," his bard sighs.

"I don't think it was a nap," Gosia comments, not pausing her work. Geralt can feel her pulling free a chunk of something, probably hair and mud. "This blow probably knocked him clean out. You're losing about two finger's width of hair, so don't be surprised when I let you up."

Geralt can feel when she switches to dabbing whatever is left with the steaming herb concoction. She wets the cloth again every few swipes. It hurts, badly. Geralt can't help but tighten his arms around his bard, not enough to hurt him, but holding him a little closer makes Geralt feel better. He noses his bard's thigh; he smells of safety.

"My dear lady, whatever you are doing it is resulting in my getting a very tight hug." Geralt should apologize, he would never, ever hurt his bard. But the more she works the more it hurts and why are they at a blasted healer anyway?

"I'm cleaning this muck out of the wound. And," she trails off for a second and curses, "ah fuck, I'm gonna have to stitch this. Hold that," she says to Jaskier, who moves his hand from Geralt's hair onto the cloth on Geralt's head. He can hear the healer moving, gathering what Geralt would assume is a needle and stitching silk.

The door to the house opens. Geralt tenses and makes to get up but his bard applies a bit of pressure to the cloth and shushes him. "Please stay still Geralt, she needs to stitch it. Just stay still, there's no danger." Geralt thinks he's using the words to reassure himself as much as he is Geralt.

Over his bard, Geralt can hear the other conversation. "I am with a patient. I don't care what you want right now, go wait on the porch like a good boy," she sounds irritated, but not truly angry.

"I'm just here for the Witcher. My boy said he slew the beast and I figured I wouldn't make him come to the office if he ended up here," comes an unknown voice from the door.

"Go wait on the porch, you can talk to him when I'm done you impatient ass. He can collect his purse just fine when I'm done and sitting out in the fresh air might do you some good, so go."

The door closes and footsteps retreat. Before Geralt can consider what that exchange was, Gosia returns and repositions Jaskier's hands, then _pours_ the herb water on his head. Jaskier keeps it free from his eyes but fuck that hurts.

"Fuck that hurts," Geralt grits out and clutches Jaskier a bit more.

"That should be the worst bit," Gosia assures. More dabbing, cloths are switched out, and finally the pain lets up a bit. "Stay VERY STILL Witcher, I'm gonna close it for you. Bard, pat it dry as I go so I can see."

She's fast, Geralt will give her that. Soon enough he feels the tugging of a tied off thread. "Are you done?" 

"Not quite. Gotta clean it up and fix this hair. I am not letting you walk out of my house looking like a hack job took care of you," she sounds a bit offended. "Bard, can you braid?"

"Two sisters," his bard replies as an explanation. Geralt supposes the real him knows that. 

"Good, braid back all of this that's undamaged and I'll clean up the cut after." She maneuvers Geralt up, patting his face and neck somewhat dry so Jaskier can begin work. 

"I'll do a better job than this once we get back to the inn and get both of us clean," his bard promises, as if Geralt will be unhappy with the result and complain.

"Anything you give me is fine." Because it is and his bard has gentle hands in his hair. Geralt hopes this isn't the first time they've done this, the braiding not the healer visit, because he would like it to be a regular occurrence.

Once he finishes, Gosia returns with some cloth and a rather large blade. She tips Geralt's head sideways and neatens up the haircut. "Not the most usual look, but I think you will pass. Bard?"

"You look quite fetching, in a barbarian sort of way," he says, blushing a little.

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him.

"It is not a bad look," his bard admits, looking away as he speaks. It's cute, Geralt thinks, that he's trying to hide his affection by fiddling with a drying clump of horsebalm stalks.

"Nomally, I would have you drink a healing draught and probably give you something for pain. However that blow to the head should've out-right killed you, so I'm not sure what I have will be helpful to a Witcher. You seem to be built tougher than the average person that I see." She stares at Geralt like he is a puzzle to solve, which is better than like a monster to be feared. She looks thoughtful for a moment before asking, "any of whatever you put on that shoulder left?"

His bard looks at her with a face full of shock. "What do you mean it 'should have out-right killed' him?" That sounded pretty clear to Geralt, only a mutant could live through the head blow. Since his bard is still processing the new information, he grabs the potion sack and begins sifting through vials to see if he can find a healing potion. Geralt is pleased with Real Geralt for sticking a couple of human safe potions in here, just in case. He finds at least three vials of intimate oils while he is searching. 

"Well," Gosia begins patiently, "that was a major blow to a vulnerable part of the skull. Most people, the skull would just give way, and that's that. His didn't, so we're fortunate. I'd also expect him to have other problems from it, like a headache or vomiting or light bothering him. Even memory and balance can go with a hit to the head," she casually lists off.

"I've got the headache," and the memory loss he doesn't finish. He finally finds the healing potion and hands it over to the healer. 

"Not surprised. Anything else you neglected to tell me when you got here?" Both she and his bard were looking at him suspiciously and expectantly. Fuck, he should own up. 

"The light thing. And… um… the memory loss as well."

"Oh Geralt," his bard sighed, full of empathy, "no wonder you didn't know how to come to town." And he sounded so tender Geralt wanted to hug him. Geralt feels guilty for causing him any distress.

"Let me guess, you're missing the day of? Maybe a few days before?" Gosia sounds unimpressed.

Geralt should own up to missing more, so he doesn't inadvertently hurt his bard again. He might be able to cover more effectively with a larger gap. "A few months," he said to the floor, not daring a look at his bard. Hopefully that is vague enough Jaskier will not doubt Geralt's place at his side.

"Well, if a normal man, with a normal hit, misses a week, the hit you took might've been enough to knock more of 'em free." She claps him on his good shoulder. "Chances are they'll come back by the time the light quits being much of a bother." She wags the potion bottle in front of him, "do I just drop this on?"

His bard takes it from her hands, "I can do it. I do it all the time. I am good at fixing Witcher injuries." Geralt leans into Jaskier's hand and watches him uncork the vial with his teeth and carefully drop a few bits onto the injury above his ear. It hurts, as expected. "On the shoulder too? Or are you gonna drink the rest of the nasty stuff?"

"Drink it unfortunately," Geralt answers. He gently takes the vial from his bard and downs the whole foul-tasting mess. "Tastes like shit."

It makes his bard laugh, good. Geralt sincerely hopes the real him still cherishes every laugh from his bard. "You always say that Geralt."

"Doubt they'd work if they tasted like wildflower mead," Geralt does not roll his eyes. Things that taste good rarely have medicinal use.

His bard laughs some more, "I suppose you're right." 

"Move and let me finish up," Gosia grumbles and shoves Jaskier a little bit to get him out of the way. She puts a bandage on his head and dangles a sling in front of him, "Shirt or no shirt?"

"What?"

"If you're going to be foolish and try to run errands after this, you should put on a shirt before this sling. If you're going from here to bed, as I suggest you should, then I would skip the shirt. I think you can trust the bard to defend your honor on the way to the inn."

"You're taking a bath after this Geralt. I will not tolerate any argument," his bard orders firmly.

"Fine," Geralt agrees. He gets the impression that his bard can coerce him into almost anything. He allows Gosia to slip the sling on and adjust it to her liking. Without prompting, his bard reaches over to adjust his medallion so it hangs free.

"Let me send you on with some of that numbing salve in case he does something like this again," she says to Jaskier. "If you want Witcher, you can go deal with our alderman who is," and she raises her voice quite loud, aiming it outside, "peeping through my windows like a naughty schoolboy."

"Go on Geralt, I'll settle up and then we can go to our room at the inn." His bard is looking a bit tired, maybe they can have some quality time at the inn to relax.

"Then get some rest," Gosia reiterates. "Don't do anything strenuous until that arm heals at least. Witchering and swordplay are off the list. BOTH forms of swordplay," she emphasizes, looking between Jaskier and Geralt. 

Geralt leaves before she can make any more recommendations for the good of his health.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A GIANT thank you to battleships for lending me their vast medical knowledge to make sure Gosia was good at her job.


	4. The Bath Scene

Geralt does find a middle-aged human man looking sheepish on Gosia's front porch. He straightens up as Geralt exits, and looks a bit concerned at his appearance.

"I am sorry Witcher. I did not mean to intrude when you were having a healer's services. I only wanted to thank you for slaying the monster and bring you your purse." The man actually looks sorry for his actions. "I got ahead of myself when my son burst into my office saying you had returned."

"Hmm." Geralt had been politely, and not so politely, encouraged to leave many towns after completing the contract and just plain run out of others. Nothing in this interaction points to that as an outcome. "The head is with my horse for your proof I completed the contract."

The man turns a bit green. "Yes, I saw that unfortunately. Some of the boys have set it up behind the stable and are daring each other to peek in the bag. So, as alderman, I… umm, had a peek. Also, Emil made sure I saw it." He looks disgusted at the memory. "I could've gone without ever seeing the like happily. But I do suppose it's good to have solid proof the danger is over and you are as good as the tales say White Wolf."

He darts a look around the garden. "But really, I would have taken your word that you had slain it. Really."

That is unusual. Geralt inclines his head and patiently waits for the alderman to get to his point.

"Just thank you again. I have your purse, 350 as agreed." He holds it up as proof. He looks at Geralt's current number or working arms and frowns. "I meant to give it to you now but if you would rather collect it after you rest, I'll keep it safe for you and you or your companion can collect when you have less pressing matters.

What is more pressing than getting paid? Generally nothing. This is a very strange man. "I'll take it now," Geralt states shortly. He has his bard to care for now and won't risk being shortchanged.

The alderman smiles timidly and drops the purse into Geralt's waiting hand. He weighs it and it, unsurprisingly, feels the wrong weight. However it feels too heavy instead like he was cheated. "This is 350?" he raises an eyebrow.

"Well no," the alderman looks sheepish again. "I put a little more in to say thank you for taking care of my little Alina's kitten. She loves that ball of fluff more than anything, probably including me and it would have just crushed her little spirit if anything had happened to it. She won't let it out of her sight. I have never in my life seen a kitten walking on a leash like a pup, but she has managed it. My wife stitched a little harness and everything."

"That sounds adorable, doesn't it Geralt?" Jaskier appears at Geralt's shoulder and is beaming at the alderman. Geralt wants to sag with relief when he sees his bard, pack in hand. He probably has a stupid smile on his face but he doesn't care. Talking to people is taxing and his head still hurts. He hands the purse, complete with kitten saving bonus, to his bard and watches it smoothly disappear somewhere on his person as he talks.

"I think we will be resting at the inn a few days so perhaps we will see the little darling and her charge." The words have put the other man at ease. His bard wraps a hand conspicuously around Geralt's shoulders. "I really must be getting the White Wolf to bed soon. Gosia has done a fantastic job patching him up and we wouldn't want any of that to go to waste."

"Oh, of course not," the alderman immediately responds, "please feel free to rest and recover as long as you need in our quiet little town. Thank you again White Wolf for making our roads safe to traverse." He holds out his hand for a handshake, and then looks embarrassed again as he remembers Geralt has an arm in the sling. "Right, I'm sure I will see you around," he states and walks off, eager to stop making an ass of himself most likely.

"Oh good gods, Geralt, I thought the secondhand embarrassment was going to come for me. He was trying so hard, poor man." He is laughing a little as he speaks, his hand grasping Geralt's good shoulder where it has been resting. Something in his bard is looser now; he has lost the anxious edge that he had since Geralt woke up in the swamp. Talking with the healer and having reassurances Geralt will heal seems to have lifted some worry from his shoulders.

His bard looks at him, his face is so close, Geralt really wants to kiss it. Real Geralt probably would. The moment of hesitation allows Jaskier to speak, "Come on Witcher, I promised the healer I would put you to bed."

"Alright, take me to bed." Geralt pitches his voice low and aims for sounding suggestive. Even if he can't actually do anything about it, he can at least flirt a little. Hopefully, it will encourage his bard's good humor.

He is rewarded when his bard's eyes go round and his mouth falls into a soft 'o'. Then he gets a cheeky grin, "You are being very bad today, Geralt of Rivia. You need a nap."

Geralt lets his bard tug him through the streets, having traded the grip on his shoulder for holding onto his arm. As they head toward the center of the town, more people appear on the streets doing all of the things Geralt would expect in a small town. To his surprise, they greet the pair with friendly waves or a courteous nod. The chatter Geralt can hear is also unexpected:

"He killed it last night. Saved all of us."

"Poor thing was hurt. I hope he recovers alright."

"It's completely unfair for someone to look like THAT this early in the morning."

"It's completely unfair they are both TAKEN."

"What do you think of gifting them some scones as a thank you?"

"Think the bard or the Witcher would take my hand off first if I just touched that chest? Just a little."

"The bard, what is wrong with you? I swear."

This is not the reception Geralt is used to from townfolk. He usually gets plenty of commentary on his hulking form or inhuman appearance. Lots of fear and vitriol and wishes he would leave, the sooner the better. His bard is tugging him into the inn so Geralt decides to ignore the fortunate oddness of this town.

"Welcome back!" the proprietress greets them, coming around from behind the bar where she had been arranging mugs. "Emil has gotten your horse settled in the stables out back and he was kind enough to take all your gear up to your room. Except the for the monster head, I think the boys are all out back poking it with a stick I'm afraid." She looks resigned to the fact.

"That's alright, I don't exactly care for monster viscera in my bedchamber." His bard wrinkles his nose and manages to make an adorably disgusted face. "To that point, I don't suppose you have a laundress handy?"

"There are a couple of girls in town who can take care of anything you need washed. I'll be up in a quarter hour or so to collect the dirty things and take them over, if that's alright. Just leave them by the door. I can also bring a tray when I come, if you gentlemen have skipped breakfast," she offers helpfully. 

"Oh that would be lovely," Jaskier claps his hands together. "I don't suppose it would be too much trouble to have a bath brought up? My companion spent a large part of the evening in a bog," he explains, again sounding as if Geralt routinely takes naps in the mud for fun. His bard is clearly teasing him and Geralt can play at irritation so as not to spoil the fun. 

"The monster was there, Bard. How am I to kill a monster if I don't go to meet it?" he says flatly. The look his bard shoots him tells Geralt that this is not an acceptable excuse, but there is a mischievous glint in his eye. 

"Oh! I had one filled when Emil told me you were back. It sounded like you boys might want to wash up some." She's watching their bickering with a soft smile.

"My dear lady, you are a gift and an angel," Jaskier flatters. He is so charming, Geralt still has no idea why his bard would agree to be, well, his.

"Master Bard, are you planning on performing for us this evening, after you've had a rest, of course?"

"I should be delighted to play for the lovely people here again. Thank you for giving me the space to ply my humble trade," Jaskier replied, sounding every inch as confident as his words were modest.

"Go on," she laughs and waves them away.

At the end of the hall on the second story, which is quite a good room location, Jaskier produces a key and fits it in the room lock. It is a nice room, for being in an inn. Clean and nothing smells of mold; there is a small table with two chairs and a single bed, easily large enough to fit two grown men. A small stack of dry wood next to the hearth, in case they wish to light a fire. His packs from Roach had indeed been brought up and placed at the foot of the bed. A few additional bags and a lute in its case had apparently been left in the room for safekeeping when he set out on his hunt.

A large tub takes up most of the floorspace. It looks to be long enough Geralt will actually be able to stretch his legs out. Or even share the bath with his lover. He watches said person trail a hand though the water.

"Hmm," Jaskier frowns. "It's gone a bit cold. Don't suppose you would be up to sparing an Igni to fix that, would you Witcher?" he raises an eyebrow in question.

Geralt flicks the sign off before he can even process the request. Jaskier beams at him. Geralt has never been asked to use his magic for something so domestic. It's nice knowing that even this little part of him is accepted by his bard. Geralt has gotten truly lucky and he will cherish Jaskier, memory or no memory. 

Geralt sits to remove his boots as best he can one handed. His bard flits about the room going through each of their travelling bags and producing a frankly astonishing amount of clothing. Where did he stow it all? He makes a small pile in the chair next to Geralt and a significantly larger pile by the door.

"I'm just going to send out everything we aren't going to wear tonight. It's been a while since we have stayed somewhere long enough to get the whole lot washed up. Might as well take advantage." He shucks off his outer layers and adds them to the pile at the door.

Geralt looks down at the trousers he is wearing. "Do you need these too?"

"I am afraid those are your cleanest pair. So you'll have to wear them later." He looks thoughtful, "well we could send them out, and you can just stay up here in your all-together until the clothes have been cleaned. You would have an excuse for missing supper then."

"I think I should keep the option of having trousers in case I have need of them. Wouldn't want to miss your performance later." His bard looks surprised again. 

Geralt will have to make sure he remembers to be supportive and boost his confidence. His bard should not be surprised that Geralt enjoys watching him perform or that Geralt enjoys his music. He seemed so pleased when the proprietress agreed to let him perform at supper and his bard is too talented to be allowed to doubt himself. Geralt supposes being a support for his bard is another thing he learned to do in the missing block of time. Geralt will try to do better.

A knocking at the door cut off any reply. Jaskier stuffs the laundry in the offered basket and the innkeeper sets a plate of handpies on the table next to Geralt. "Those will keep just fine 'til you want to eat. Be sure to let me know if either of you need anything more," she says as she takes the laundry off to be cleaned.

The food looks good, objectively, if he hadn't just downed a potion. Geralt leaves it for Jaskier and heads for the bath. He manages to wriggle out of his trousers without aggravating his shoulder and slips out of the sling easily. Sinking into the hot bathwater is bliss.

"Don't get your injuries wet!" his bard admonishes. He is holding several little bottles of bath oils. Jaskier tips a few drops of oil into the bath. "Gosia said not to let you get them wet until they heal."

"I'll be careful. Go eat." Geralt makes a show of mixing the oil into the water with his good arm only.

Jaskier looks at him like he is being an asshole, which, to be fair, he is. "Five minutes, and then you are going to get clean." Jaskier moans as he bites into one of the pies. Geralt is in favor of making him make that noise as much as possible. It does things to Geralt. "Gods Geralt, these are amazing. You just have to eat one once your stomach cooperates."

"I'll be sure to do that," Geralt chuckles. 

Geralt carefully positions his injured shoulder above the water and relaxes back to watch his bard. Even resting in his underthings and inelegantly eating a second pie, he is beautiful. Geralt should tell him, compliment him, ensure he is secure in Geralt's affection.

"You're beautiful," he tries, because Geralt can't think of a better way to express the sentiment. He is not the bard in the relationship.

Jaskier snorts. "I am sitting here in my oldest underthings and stuffing my face with food. Honestly I would wonder if you had experienced brain damage. Oh wait," he stops in false realization, "I know for a fact you currently have. Let's get you washed before you try and compliment me again."

His bard gets up, grabs the bath oils and moves behind Geralt before he could try another compliment. It is unfortunate Geralt cannot see him remove his shirt, but it does fly over Geralt's head to land near the cleanest clothes pile in the chair. Jaskier pushes on his back and Geralt obligingly leans forward.

The cloth running methodically along his neck and shoulders is amazing. Geralt doesn't actually remember the last time someone took the time to bathe him properly. It's been a long while since he had a nice warm bath actually. Or has it? He probably enjoys this experience often now. Even in the woods, with nothing but a bucket and a rag, his bard took care to bathe him.

Geralt tips his head back when his bard moves to washing one of his arms. "You could do that in the water you know."

"What was that?" Jaskier replies distractedly. He has moved to carefully cleaning around the shoulder injury.

"Come get in the bath. There is plenty of room for you to join me," which was true. Geralt also really wants to hold his bard in his arms and he wants to bathe him. Geralt can at least try to reciprocate even with the limitations of his injuries. 

Also, Geralt doesn't remember what his bard looks like nude, but he must be stunning and Geralt really wants a look.

"Join you. In the bath," Jaskier says flatly, not moving at all.

"Get in the bath, Songbird." That comes out more demanding than Geralt intends. He has been trying not to sound so harsh. In spite of his tone, it works. Jaskier looks surprised but stands up while removing his remaining clothes and finally, finally Geralt gets to see his lover nude.

He looks amazing, Geralt wants to touch all of him, immediately. He wants to scratch his fingers through the hair on Jaskier's chest. He wants to wander his hands over unblemished skin and to wrap his hands around that waist and settle his bard in his lap. He wants to put his mouth on Jaskier's soft cock and feel as he grows to hardness. Lay his lover out before him and relearn every touch that makes him sigh in pleasure.

Geralt doesn't usually want a particular person for sexual release. If he wants it, and has the coin, he just finds a whore who doesn't stink of fear when looking at him and pays them well. If he doesn't have the coin, his hand will do. But he wants his bard, specifically his bard, wrapped up in and around and under and over him. He wants to touch and taste all of him and offer anything Jaskier might desire. It's new, having preference, desiring a single person, and Geralt likes it.

Geralt is sure he has been staring at his bard, standing nude, with hearts in his eyes. Jaskier is staring back, like Geralt is a puzzle piece with an extra side. He offers his hand to help Jaksier into the tub. Jaskier takes it and, to Geralt's disappointment, he settles at the opposite end of the tub with his feet propped up on Geralt's thighs.

Geralt decides to take what he can get and grabs the cloth and bath oil. He begins washing one of Jaskier's legs, being sure to massage the muscles. They are fantastic legs, Geralt muses; he would like to have them over his shoulders at some point. 

Geralt needs to distract himself before he completely ignores the healer's orders. "Explain to me why we were paid a bonus for a kitten?"

That makes his bard smile. "Oh it was adorable, Geralt. You Axii-ed a kitten out of a tree."

"Did it fall?" Geralt has a passing thought of casting Axii and a cat falling face first from its perch in a tree. He hopes he didn't do that. He has given up pretending to wash Jaskier's legs and is just massaging them as he listens to him talk. They are very nice legs.

"Oh gods, no. Let me start at the beginning. Maybe a week ago or so we heard of a contract out this way so we headed here. Now I don't know if you know but this town is in the middle of nowhere Geralt. I think no one would ever come here if they didn't make such rare dyes. I'm getting off topic…" he flails a hand around to chase away the story thread.

"The point is we arrived here looking like we had been living in the woods for a few days, which we had, because we stopped to camp with that elven caravan for a night. And there was this little girl, head full of curls and a proper little dress, standing in the street and kind of whimpering."

"And then she saw you and her eyes went huge like moons and asked if you were the Witcher her father sent for. And you said that you were in that gruff way of yours. And she said 'Oh, you are here to help.' and you 'Hmm-ed' at her." Jaskier does a quite remarkable Geralt impression. 

"Then this little one grabs your hand and pulls you right up to the base of this huge oak tree and explains that her kitten has gotten lost high in the branches and she is afraid he will die. And you, bless my soul, went down on one knee and said, with utmost sincerity, you would save the kitten."

"Everyone with any sense, including you, knows the kitten will figure out how to come down before something bad happens. But you shrugged off your pack and vaulted up that tree like you were born for it."

"Now I'm standing there on the ground with the tiny girl watching you go up. Then you flick off an Axii and the tiniest ball of orange fluff walks down the branch into the palm of your hand." He mimes the action, walking his hand down the opposite arm from shoulder to palm. "Then you jump out of the gods-damned tree like the laws of gravity don't apply to you and hand the kitten, happy and content, off to its young owner. Then she hugs your leg for all that she only comes up to your hip and says thank you and runs away back home," he finishes with a flourish.

"Of course Geralt, if you had told me when I was eighteen and your reputation was still shit and I was looking at the moodiest man on the Continent sulking in a corner of a shitty, shitty bar in Posada, that he would one day rescue a kitten cause a little girl begged for his help, I would have told you that you had lost your grip on reality. But here we are," Jaskier finishes with a dramatic wave of both hands which flings some water out of the tub.

That whole story is a lot for Geralt to process. Firstly, his bard is an amazing storyteller and Geralt wants him to tell him every story Geralt doesn't remember. Secondly, what has gone on in the missing block of time that makes a little girl see a Witcher as someone to rescue a kitten? Usually children run and hide behind their mother's skirts not give him hugs.

Lastly, Jaskier just implied they've been together in some sense of the word since Jaskier was eighteen. Eighteen! What was Geralt ever doing with an eighteen year old bard? No wonder Jaskier mentioned having bad flirting skills when they met, he was barely old enough to have practiced any. 

Geralt looks at his bard, really looks at him. Geralt is not the best at pinning down a human's age but his bard must be 30 perhaps, at the oldest? So that means more than a decade they've known each other. Geralt is missing much more time than he previously thought.

Fuck.

They probably are handfasted, aren't they?

Geralt really, really wants that memory back. He presses a hand to his face and tries to force his brain to give him something, anything from that day. It remains frustratingly blank. Fucking head injury taking the memory of a day that would have been filled with happiness and joy and leaving only the bad days that came before. 

"Come here," Geralt orders, because at least they are both here now, and he can make a memory to have.

"Oh right, of course. I need to finish getting you clean." Jaskier shuffles down the tub on his knees and grabs the cloth from Geralt and begins efficiently washing him. "I got lost telling the story and wasn't tending to you. Sorry about that."

Oh no, that's not what Geralt meant at all. "That's not what I meant. It's just... upsetting to be missing so much time."

"It will come back, Geralt." Jaskier pauses and looks at him like he would fix everything if he only could. He runs his hands reassuringly over Geralt's chest. It helps. "And if it doesn't come on its own, the two of us know some very powerful sorceresses."

Geralt can't stand the bit of space between them. He pulls his bard to his chest, crushing him into a hug. His injured shoulder twinges, but it can fuck off. He is allowed this. He presses his nose into Jaskier's damp chest and breathes. Jaskier is here and real, no matter what Geralt has forgotten. 

His bard is petting over Geralt's loose hair soothingly. "In the meantime, I can tell you anything you want." He pulls back, tipping Geralt's head up with gentle pressure underneath the jaw so he can look Geralt in the eye. Jaskier flashes him a cocky grin. "I would be a very poor bard indeed if I could not recount the tales of my greatest muse."

"Always taking care of me, Geralt chuckles. "Turn around and I will return the favor."

"What."

"Let me wash you, Songbird." Huh. That's the second time Geralt has used that nickname, it must be a nickname, and both times Jaskier actually listened. He now has Jaskier sitting between his thighs, facing away from him. 

Geralt is a lucky man. He takes his time running his hands over his bard's back, massaging as he goes. He finds few scars, nothing like his own body, just an expanse of smooth warm skin he is allowed to touch. Geralt is pleased everything indicates Geralt has been a good companion. As a Witcher, Geralt can't always provide a soft bed or even indoor shelter. But he can provide food and protection, and evidently has done so.

As he washes lower, Geralt maybe takes the liberty to palm Jaskier's ass, just a little, because he is only a Witcher and the brief glance he got of it was not enough. Once everything is as clean as he can reasonably make it, Geralt pulls his bard back to his chest. It earns him an adorable squeak and his cock nestled up next to that lovely ass.

"Geralt, what…" Jaskier begins, sounding confused. 

"Relax, I just need to wash the front of you," he assures, grabbing an arm and washing it gently. He massages his bard's hand and can feel calluses from what Geralt can only assume are the lute strings. It tells Geralt that what rests in the lute case is not only for show or a new venture Jaskier is undertaking, his bard has worked learning it. Geralt hopes he will perform with it tonight.

He works his way across Jaskier's chest, and it feels exactly as good as Geralt imagined. He wants to rest his head on it and hear the heartbeat as close as possible. Maybe his bard will sing and Geralt can listen to it resonating in his chest.

His hands move up, to wash his bard's neck, when he feels it. There is a slight imperfection in the hollow of his throat which even Geralt's enhanced eyesight could not see earlier. Geralt gently traces his fingers along, finding it to be a paper thin scar running from collarbone to collarbone. What the hell happened? And where was Geralt when it did?

He feels it again. It could have been from a garrote or a very thin knife. Geralt gets a flash of memory, Jaskier looking up at him, bloodied and terrified, saying his name and Geralt assuring him that he won't let him die. Panic zings though his body, followed by crushing guilt. Jaskier was nearly killed and somehow Geralt let that happen. He hugs Jaskier close and tucks his nose into his neck.

"Geralt, what's," he begins, sliding a hand up over Geralt's and noticing what made him upset. "Oh that. It's fine Geralt, no one can see it and I barely remember it's there anymore. No need to go all pouty on me."

"I'm sorry," Geralt whispers into the skin. He lays a line of kisses along the ridge of Jaskier's shoulder, because, yet again, he doesn't know what he did but he still feels responsible. He should have protected his bard from whatever happened just before that memory.

"You can stop apologizing for that any day now you know. Everyone made lots of bad decisions that day and nobody died including the obsessive elven healer that you accidentally broke out of jail on the way to get me. All of us learned some good life lessons that day, like how Witchers need reliable sleeping schedules, and that orgies and apple juice should always be consensual and that both mind control and running into collapsing buildings after an insane witch are detrimental to one's well being. Lastly, the main takeaway is to never, under any circumstances, mess with a bloody djinn ever again."

Geralt is dumbfounded. That story sounds like a fever dream or perhaps someone threw words into a bag and randomly drew them out and was forced to spin a tale covering the gaps. Nothing seems to feel false, and he doesn't know enough to dispute the bard's story. If there were witches and djinns, he should have been wary enough to protect his bard given any other distractions. 

"I should have protected you," Geralt says, running a hand over the scar again.

"You fixed it Geralt, that's what's important. You saved everyone and we all live to never ever do that again," Jaskier affirms, giving Geralt's forearm a reassuring pat.

Geralt gives his bard another kiss, nestled behind his ear this time, to thank him for his forgiveness. He is sure he doesn't deserve it. His bard seems a little tense, so Geralt continues bathing him, occasionally nuzzling his damp hair or giving him another little kiss. Kissing his bard's neck might be Geralt's new favorite thing. He makes a little gasp and stays so still, never shying away or flinching or growing tense like he will bolt, letting Geralt do what he likes. He might have other new favorite things, but he doesn't remember.

Enough distraction. Geralt needs to finish washing his bard. He gently encourages Jaskier to lean as far back as possible, mostly so Geralt can reach his lower bits, but having Jaskier lounging back on him is a nice benefit. 

Geralt manages to get down to washing Jaskier's personal bits and he wishes he hadn't ruined the mood by being distracted by that scar. He might have convinced Jaskier to bend the healer's rules otherwise. It doesn't stop Geralt from palming that lovely cock quite a bit more than it actually takes to get it clean. Jaskier doesn't say anything but squirms a bit in Geralt's lap, and that's lovely. If Geralt could get a second hand down there he could fondle his balls as well.

Deciding to go for it, Geralt wraps his other arm around his bard's middle and starts trailing it down to his destination. Jaskier could easily telegraph his intention and stop him any time, but it certainly feels like he is enjoying Geralt's other attentions. However, Geralt still has an injured shoulder and he pushes it a little too far, sucking in a breath and wincing as his hand reaches somewhere below Jaskier's navel.

Jaskier snaps out of his contented slouch against Geralt, spinning around fast enough in the tub to send water flying. 

"What did you do?" he accuses.

"Nothing," Geralt replies. Jaskier sends him a withering glare and he amends "pulled the bad shoulder."

"Geralt, no," Jaskier scolds. Then he abruptly dunks his head back in the water, and starts furiously washing his own hair while talking. "You have to take care of yourself. Just because you were being particularly nice to me, and it was lovely, thank you for your kind attentions, but you can't just... hurt yourself," he pauses to glare at Geralt again, his hair full of soap. He is adorable. "Let me finish this and I'll get out and wash your hair."

"No," comes out of Geralt's mouth. He does not want his bard to get out. It's disappointing enough he didn't get to finish tending to Jaskier as he saw fit. "You'll get cold."

Jaskier looks at him like that is a terrible excuse. "I can use a towel to dry off, you know," he explains like Geralt is five. 

"Or, you could sit in my lap," Geralt suggests hastily. 

"Sure. Why not? Let's keep the weird going full force," Jaskier mutters as if he isn't perfectly aware of Geralt's enhanced hearing. He rinses his hair. "Alright Geralt, I will sit in your lap and wash your hair but you have to behave so I don't accidentally get your stitches wet, or dunk you under the water."

Geralt smiles even as he 'hmms' in reply. He likes getting his way. He scoots forward and gathers his bard to him, wriggling until he manages to get Jaskier situated with his knees tucked up by Geralt's hips. This is a fantastic position for petting his bard's ass while he gets his hair cleaned.

Jaskier has produced a cup from somewhere and is using it to carefully clean Geralt's hair without him having to dunk his entire head. "Don't you even think about licking me while I do this."

"Wasn't until just now," Geralt lies.

"You're very funny. Be good for just a little while longer." Jaskier runs his hands through Geralt's hair, carefully massaging in whatever he deems necessary and keeping the bandage from getting wet. It feels so, so good. 

Geralt noses Jaskier's throat, to be an asshole. And licks it, just a little because it is right there. He can't actually see the horrible scar, even this close, but he can feel the difference under his tounge.

"I said NOT to lick me, Witcher. Honestly," Jaskier sighs, "you are going to pay for that once you're better." He sounds more playful than punitive, which Geralt will take as a good sign.

He waits until Jaskier has finished rinsing the section of hair nearest the cut, then Geralt spreads his good hand over one lovely cheek and squeezes. It is a fine ass. Jaskier squawks and flings even more water out of the tub by flailing around. They will have to mop up the puddle so they don't slip. Geralt just settles Jaskier back down in his lap, laughing at his bard's antics.

"Oh, you are terrible," Jaskier grouses, flicking some water off his fingers at Geralt's face. Geralt laughs more, which causes his bard to laugh too.

"You can hardly blame me, when given such a fine specimen within my grasp," Geralt explains; it is perfectly reasonable after all.

"My ass is magnificent, that is true. If I were not a bard and instead a muse, some bard would have written it a gloriously filthy song by now."

Geralt grabs Jaskier's ass again, just to check, earning him a raised eyebrow. "Needed to check the truth of your claim. Seems to be accurate." Geralt kneads it a bit to make sure.

"Okay, out," Jaskier says sharply. He pushes against Geralt, trying to find leverage to stand. "We are getting out and drying off and I'm feeding you one of the handpies before putting you to bed so you can take a nap. Naps are important for Witchers."

"We take a nap," Geralt corrects, because his bard needs sleep, especially if he will perform tonight

"Alright, fine, WE will take a nap."


	5. After a Nap

Geralt wakes up, more comfortable than the past two times in recent memory. Granted, he still has a terrible headache and an ache in his arm, but he is clean and comfortable and bundled in a soft bed with clean sheets. His bard is nestled against his chest and they are both blissfully, gloriously nude.

Jaskier had taken some convincing to join Geralt in bed for a nap, but he had obviously needed one. For some strange reason, he had made to put underthings before climbing in, but Geralt had pointed out that the sheets were clean and so were they so there was really no point. Geralt also promised he would keep his bard plenty warm, not pointing out that the room was already a comfortable temperature for sleep. Jaskier might've gotten hot in clothes anyway.

Geralt could hear the signs of a dinner rush in the barroom on the first floor, orders for food and drink and happy idle chatter about mundane things. Even though Jaskier had indeed fed him before putting him to bed, it was hardly enough now the nausea from the healing potion had subsided. He would have to move, sometime in the near future, which would wake his bard. Perhaps he could just go hungry for a while and enjoy the pleasant situation in which he finds himself. 

Before Geralt could drift back off, a loud noise from downstairs wakes his bard. To Geralt, it sounds like someone had dropped an armful of firewood on their way in the back door, which would logically be under their room. That would explain the volume of the noise. Jaskier lifts his head a bit and looks toward the door, but makes no move to leave the bed.

"What was that?" Jaskier mutters sleepily.

"Someone dropped some firewood," Geralt soothes, rubbing a hand along his bard's back. "Nap some more if you need it."

Jaskier rubs his face; he is adorable. "No, no. I'm going to perform tonight. Best get up and," he pauses to lift and look under the sheet, "find us both some clothes. I doubt this is the type of establishment that would take kindly to the lack of pants." Jaskier quickly slips out of Geralt's arms and makes his way to the pile of remaining clothes.

"I certainly don't mind the view," Geralt says to his bard's bare ass.

"I think head injuries make you horny," Jaskier comments while getting into his clothes.

"Come back to bed and you can find out," Geralt tries, knowing he would have no success.

"Oh no, look at that," Jaskier motions toward his crotch, "I've completely done up my trousers and the rules state if I've done that, I must go be seen looking decent in public."

Geralt laughs because what can you say to such things? He stalks over to his bard. "Might as well go get some supper if we are going to get dressed." 

Jaskier's only response is to hand over Geralt's trousers. Much to Geralt's annoyance, he still needs a little help getting into said trousers, even though he can do most of it one handed.

Jaskier evaluates him critically. "I think I need to braid your hair back before we attempt the shirt and sling. Do you want some more numbing salve for your wounds? I don't know about your head but your arm is still hurting, don't try and lie to me. I had to fasten your trousers."

"It would probably help," Geralt admits. Having his hair braided again sounds nice actually, and the salve does help some.

"Sit," Jaskier orders, so Geralt does. His bard finger combs his hair, being careful not to pull too much on his scalp. Geralt needs to convince Jaskier to do this as often as possible, even the headache doesn't dim the pleasantness.

Jaskier talks as he works. "Your hair is going to need this for the near future, I'm unsure of how fast witcher hair grows. Anyway, you should let me braid in some jewelry, you would look magnificent with hair jewelry in these braids. Or flowers Geralt. The White Wolf wearing buttercups in his white locks, you would be a love song made flesh," his bard trails off, likely evaluating an image of Geralt decorated in a way that suits Jaskier's taste.

"If it would please you, you could," Geralt agrees easily. He has a strange haircut already, putting flowers in his hair will hardly draw more attention than that. If it makes his bard smile, all the better.

"You said that," Jaskier sounds shocked, "I am going to remember you said that. We have enough coin; I might even see if I can get hair jewelry in the morning. Although, I doubt there is a jewelsmith in town."

Jaskier pauses and looks at Geralt expectantly, as if he expects Geralt to argue. Real Geralt must worry about money often if his bard is worried about cheap jewelry. Geralt 'hmms' because he is not opposed to his bard doing that. They obviously were not lacking in coin when he took the kikimora contract, so buying trinkets will do no harm.

Jaskier makes no further comment as he finishes and ties the braid, no, braids off. He gets the numbing salve from the pack, and uses a clean bit of toweling to dab a bit around the shoulder and head wounds. "Wouldn't want my fingers to go numb before I have an engagement to play my lute." He wiggles said fingers in front of Geralt's face.

"Wouldn't want your chords to get sloppy."

Jaskier's response is to stuff a shirt on Geralt's head, grumbling "never had a sloppy chord progression in my life." Once the shirt is sorted, Jaskier doesn't even ask before situating Geralt's arm in the sling. 

Geralt looks at himself in the small looking glass on the wall. His hair is tidy with three decorative braids holding his hair away from the line of neat stitches above his ear. He looks... cared for, like someone cares enough for him to ensure he looks presentable when he is obviously not in a state to do it himself. For all his unnaturally white hair and golden cat eyes and gleaming silver medallion, he looks startlingly human. He isn't sure how to express this feeling.

"Thank you," he decides is the way to start, "it is kind of you to care for me like this."

"It's not like you would take care of yourself and someone has to do it Geralt," Jaskier replies fondly. He tucks a coin purse onto Geralt's belt and then flashes a pair of Gwent decks at him. "Which?"

Geralt grabs the one that looks most familiar. Jaskier smiles at him and grabs his lute from the case. It's beautiful and elven-made and absolutely covered in protective enchantments, it must have cost Geralt a fortune to provide it for him. Geralt is absolutely sure that it was worth the price. 

Jaskier locks the door behind them, handing Geralt the key. Geralt is apparently the holder of things for the evening, which makes sense seeing as his bard intends to perform and that would be easier if he did not have to worry where his coin purse happened to be. It is terribly domestic and Geralt loves that. Finding implicit trust anywhere is rare for a Witcher and here it is, offered freely by his bard.

At the bottom of the stairs Jaskier turns to him. "I'm going to speak to the proprietress and see about supper. You go find a table in the corner and don't hurt yourself brooding until I get there." 

Jaskier shoos him toward the dining area. Geralt gives him a quick peck on the lips and makes his way toward an empty table with good sightlines. It also has a good view of the hearth, which is where he expects his bard to perform later. 

Geralt listens in on Jaskier's conversation as he settles in at the small table, with his back to the wall. Jaskier manages to get his own supper covered as a performing fee and the proprietress tells him Geralt's is on-the-house due to his service to the town. Also to expect their laundry around mid-morning tomorrow. Geralt is surprised by the offer of the meal. Yes, he did do a service for the town and he was compensated fairly for that service. He is not one to turn down a free meal, especially one that looks as good as what his bard is bringing, but it is odd.

Jaskier sets two generous bowls of stew, complete with bread, down on the table. He adjusts his lute and sits down himself. "Go on, it won't eat itself."

A few moments later, Emil drifts by with a tray of mugs, leaving a pair for them. He promises he will be back later, when his mother isn't pressing him into emergency wait staff duty.

His bard is quieter than usual. The pair of them were just laughing and joking upstairs, perhaps he is nervous to perform in what is slowly becoming a very full room. If Geralt had to guess, they are mostly locals, come to enjoy the rare treat of a bard in their town. There is even a contingent of young women gathered at the table nearest the hearth, probably waiting for him to sing.

That's a lot of pressure if someone is not used to scrutiny. Geralt presses his leg against Jaskier's, offering silent reassurance. He would hold his bard's hand if only the damned sling gave him use of both. Geralt decides to go one step further and hook his foot around Jaskier's, tangling feet instead of fingers. 

Geralt notices Jaskier has focused on finishing his ale, ignoring everything else in the room, and finally has to offer verbal encouragement. "I'm sure you will give a good performance." Geralt is terrible with words.

His bard puffs up, indignant. "I will never give less than a spectacular performance. I will never understand why you insist on using weak adjectives. I will show you 'good,' Witcher." 

He pushes back from the table and rises from his seat. He leaves for the hearth, seemingly eager to prove that 'good' is an inadequate adjective. Not exactly how Geralt intended to soothe the stage fright, but it managed to work.

Jaskier strikes a chord and hops up on to the hearth, attracting the attention of the entire room. "Hello everyone," he begins, waving a hand to the room, "I am Jaskier the bard and your entertainment for the evening. Shall we get started?"

After a resounding yes, he starts to sing. Not only sing, but play the lute as expertly as anyone Geralt has ever heard. And he moves while he does this, weaving in and out of the front tables, and never missing a note. He is wearing a pale yellow doublet and he smiles as he sings and it doesn't even matter what the words are. It is so far from Jaskier's earlier quiet demeanor and Geralt is mesmerized. 

His second song is no less entrancing and most certainly about Geralt, fighting a Striga. If half of what his bard sings is true, Geralt is insane. Completely insane. No Witcher would take on a Striga he intended to save single handedly. It doesn't feel wrong though.

His third song is a request from a patron and is also about Geralt. People sing the chorus. Jaskier beams and encourages the audience participation. The song makes Geralt out to be some kind of noble protector of the people and no one disagrees. Then Jaskier winks at Geralt and Geralt stops caring what the words are again.

Sometime after that, three men approach his table, each one carrying an ale. "Mind if we join you Witcher? It's gotten quite full in here since Jaskier started up."

Geralt senses no magic and they seem harmless enough so he inclines his head. The three crowd around the table, one of them sliding an extra ale to Geralt. 

"I'm Borys, my wife and I run the bakery in town with our daughters. This here is my son Oskar who decided that a bakery was causing his soul a slow death and ran off to my brother's to become a farmer instead."

"Dad," Oskar, who looked to be twenty or so, complained, but Borys continued on.

"And this is Edmund, who you probably have already met and runs the stables here in town and his wife is our dear innkeeper who had best not spot him slacking off with me." He dodges a swipe of Edmund's hand. "Witcher, we just wanted to thank you again for slaying the monster. So much of what we do here goes through that trade route and you have truly saved us."

The amount of gratitude in this town is unprecedented. "It's my purpose as a Witcher."

"Be that as it may, you still chose to take our contract, and for that I thank you," Borys insists.

"I hope you didn't want that gruesome head for anything," Edmund starts, "I threw it back in the woods and had the boys clean out your sack and put it with the rest of your tack."

"Thank you," Geralt responds, "it's helpful to have it disposed of since I've already spoken with your alderman."

"He did turn a bit green at the sight. Awful ugly thing it was." Edmund looks displeased with the memory.

"I don't know if I'm glad I missed it or not," Oskar muses.

"They smell terrible so I would say you're fortunate." Geralt may have gotten used to the smell of monster innards, but that does not mean he likes it.

Jaskier started a new song and Geralt missed a bit of conversation. When he looked back down, Gwent decks had appeared on the table.

"Do you play?" Borys asks.

Geralt sets his own deck on the table as an answer.

All of the men make approving sounds. "We are playing for usual stakes," Borys says, then turns to Geralt. "Loser buys the next round of ale."

Not the stakes Geralt is used to playing, but it seems to be a good way to pass the time and be social. And if he no longer remembers how to play Gwent he is out a very small sum of money. "Seems fair."

"Okay, I'll go first since I've played these two so often I've memorized their decks," Oskar offers.

"Yet you consistently lose," Borys comments.

They draw and begin the game. Geralt would admit, if asked, that he was not giving the game his full attention. He was doing well enough, but the bulk of his attention was on his bard. Geralt has never seen a bard of his talent perform like this in a small town, and Geralt is surprisingly not being biased about the quality of the performance. He is not the only one who notices.

"Is it true then," the baker asks when he notices Geralt watching Jaskier instead of the card being played, "that your bard is Oxenfurt educated?"

_ I WENT TO OXENFURT! I AM A MASTER OF THE SEVEN LIBERAL ARTS YOU CLASSLESS CAD! _

_ Geralt clearly remembered walking into a bar and finding his bard yelling at a large man. Jaskier was snarling across a table and looked disheveled, as if he had not been sleeping well. Both men were inebriated and Jaskier was only a handful of seconds from having a broken nose or drawing his dagger or both. So Geralt did what he thought was best and scooped Jaskier up without a word and slung him over one shoulder, his precious lute collected in Geralt's free hand. Jaskier was displeased to be rescued. _

_ "Just because you saved that tasteless oaf from me giving him a proper thrashing doesn't mean I'm not still mad at you," Jaskier pouted. _

_ "I know," Geralt replied to the red leather slung over his shoulder. _

_ "You have to make it up to me," Jaskier asserted with the full confidence of a man who is so completely in his cups he believes he can command the wind and sky. Rather impressive since he was halfway to upside-down. _

_ "I will," Geralt assured. _

_ Then, after a pause, "you have a FANTASTIC ASS." _

_ "Jaskier, you're drunk." _

Wow. That memory came through clearly. Geralt doesn't know when it happened, but it surely did. He chuckles and feels confident answering, "he's a master of the seven liberal arts."

"Talented and smart," Borys nods approvingly. "You've got good taste, Witcher."

"Got lucky," Geralt replies because whatever he did to end up here, with that amazing man, was surely luck on his part.

"I feel that way about my Marta," the baker motions to a lady sitting nearer to the hearth where Jaskier was performing, "she makes everything better just by being there."

"Hmm," Geralt agrees, that is an apt description of how he feels about his bard. He tries to remember what he was planning to do this turn with his cards.

"Dad, why are you always so mushy about Mum? You've been married a quarter of a century at least," Oskar whines in the way only a child embarrassed by their parents can manage.

"I only hope that you find someone you marry for love and get to have this conversation with your own son in a quarter of a century," Borys replies as if this is the hundredth time he has given this response.

Love.

Love is not a thing that Witchers are built for. In fact, it is actively discouraged to let your feelings run rampant and nothing is as uncontrollable as love. Witchers are always to be in control of themselves and their reactions to everything. Making a decision with anything less than a level head often can mean death. And yet…

Geralt looks across the room and catches his bard's eye. Jaskier smiles at him, a real smile, small and quick, and it makes Geralt feel as if he has been given a priceless treasure. That's it isn't it? Love is the only thing that fits. He loves Jaskier, more than anything, more than a lifetime worth of missing memory could obscure. Something so ingrained into his soul it is like breathing.

Geralt loves Jaskier.

The last two days start clicking into place like puzzle pieces. It feels natural to think the phrase. Now that he has a name for it, Geralt realizes he is an idiot for not realizing sooner. Oh, and Geralt is a lucky man, Jaskier must love him too, which is why he puts up with Geralt's… everything.

Somehow, in all of this Geralt manages to win the game of Gwent. Oskar manages to flag down Emil, who brings the ale over and produces a chair to pull up to the very full table. Perhaps he was hiding in the corner a little as well. Most patrons in the room have finished supper and are drinking and socializing and, of course, listening to Jaskier. Borys and Edmund agree to play the next round of Gwent, which suits Geralt fine. He can give his bard more of his attention.

Jaskier is talking to the ladies near the front of the hearth, several of which are shamelessly flirting with him. He's laughing and enjoying himself and sipping his ale. Geralt can't quite hear the conversation over the noise that has picked up in the bar, especially now that Emil and Oscar are heckling their fathers at Geralt's table, but one of the girls makes a request maybe. Jaskier shakes his head but the girls are insistent, pressing a tip into his hand. 

He looks over at Geralt, and Geralt is sure he has a besotted expression. It tells his bard whatever he needed to know, almost like he got permission. He quickly finishes his drink and begins plucking a melodic introduction. "This is a request from the lovely ladies over here," nodding to the girls, who look completely ecstatic to be acknowledged, "for one of my most popular songs."

"Of course my sister would ask for his one," Oskar complains as Jaskier begins to sing.

_"The fairer sex they often call them  
but her love's as unfair as a crook" _

Oh, this is not a love song, it's a heartbreak song. Jaskier sounds angry and pleading and resigned all in one. Geralt really, really hopes he did not inspire this.

_"She's always bad news  
It's always lose, lose  
So tell me love, tell me love  
How is that just?_

_But the story is this  
She'll destroy with her sweet kiss  
Her sweet kiss"_

This song makes Geralt feel as if it is directed at him. Many good bards, and Jaskier is a great bard, can make the audience feel like the subject of the song. However these feelings seem to leak out from the place his memories hide. Not a good sign.

_"Her current is pulling you closer  
And charging the hot, humid night  
The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool  
Better stay out of sight_

_I'm weak my love, and I am wanting  
If this is the path I must trudge  
I welcome my sentence  
Give to you my penance  
Garrotter, jury and judge" _

Oh no.

There's nothing subtle about that, is there? Garroter is a very deliberate word choice and Geralt knows that it is him. Jaskier glanced at him, like he couldn't help himself, when the song pleaded that he was weak and found wanting. 

Fuck. 

Real Geralt is an asshole. Real Geralt broke his bard and Geralt would like to have words with him. Real Geralt is definitely the 'love' and 'you' and 'garroter.' Geralt doesn't know if the woman is literal, he suspects it is so, but the heartbreak surely is. Love triangles are clusterfucks and he cannot imagine willingly going down that road.

Fuck, he slept with a pretty girl and betrayed Jaskier's trust, didn't he? A pretty girl that threatened Jaskier's feelings of security in their relationship. Maybe he did. He really hopes no one tried to get him to marry their daughter in lieu of payment again. That's never a good time. Oh gods, was it a succubus? If it was a fucking succubus, there is no limit to what vows it could've made him break. Fuck.

Jaskier is surrounded by applause; everyone loves his song and it was a moving performance. Edmund and Borys pause their game to clap. He doesn't look as ecstatically happy as he did when he was performing adventure songs, so Geralt isn't surprised when Jaskier announces he is taking a break. He grabs the coinage that had been left as a tip in the bowl in the hearth and makes his way slowly, as people keep stopping him to praise his talents, over to Geralt.

Jaskier surveys the now very full corner table. "I leave you alone for not even an hour and I come back to find you flush with friends to fill your table. Not even a seat left for me."

Geralt sets his bard's lute safely in the corner and scoots his chair back until it hits the wall. He angles his body for Jaskier to drape dramatically over his lap, which Jaskier does. Geralt's enhanced strength allows him to catch his bard with only one good arm and bear his weight easily. He could hold him in whatever position required for hours, another domestic benefit to Witcher mutations apparently.

"No one could ever replace you, my Songbird," Geralt promises with a smile. Just to make sure the message is clear, especially in the wake of the last song, Geralt leans up and brushes his lips against Jaskier's for a brief kiss. They are in a public place after all and he doesn't exactly know how much affection his bard allows where others can see.

Jaskier almost tumbles from Geralt's lap, saved by Geralt's arm about his middle. Clearly embarrassed, he points to Geralt's nearly full cup of ale on the table, "yours?" 

Geralt nods that it is and Jaskier declares "good," hastily grabbing it. He busies himself hiding his almost abrupt meeting with the floor behind drinking the cup of ale Geralt has had exactly one sip from. His bard can have it if it makes him happy.

"It's nice to have a bard around," Edmund comments. "We don't get many through here."

Jaskier forgets his embarrassment in light of the praise. "My good sir, it is my honor. A performer always appreciates such a receptive and generous audience for his craft."

Jaskier is sneaking his spare hand down toward the purse on Geralt's belt as he speaks. He manages to transfer the coins he had earned into the purse without anyone noticing, aside from Geralt. Geralt dares anyone to pay attention to anything else when there is an attractive man rubbing their hands over your belt.

"Witcher," Borys starts, "if you're not careful, you'll get to drink none of the ale you've won."

"My bard can have anything of mine he likes," Geralt states with a generous nod. The rest of the men laugh at the unintentional double entendre and Jaskier shoots him a look like Geralt thinks he is so funny. Then, he pointedly drinks another sip of Geralt's ale, waiting for a follow up. Geralt raises an eyebrow back; Geralt is not the one with their fingertips hooked in another man's belt just now.

"Right," Jaskier deposits Geralt's ale on the table and claps his now empty hands together, "well dear Witcher, what I would most like is a review of my performance tonight. Come on, three words or less, chop chop."

_ Three words or less  _ rings through Geralt's head with the force of a fiend's howl. Memories push through, flitting about like a flock of bats feasting. Over and over again he can hear that exact phrase, in dozens of bars, manors, royal courts, Kaer Morhen. Flashes of memory, all centered on Jaskier saying those words, years' worth of them, with little additional context. Too fast to be separated and analyzed and retained.

Geralt is a bit dazed but he realises his bard, and the rest of the table, are waiting for him to respond. He pushes out the first three words he can manage. "You are magnificent."

His bard looks briefly stunned at the compliment. He recovers, wrapping an arm about Geralt's neck for leverage and using the other to gesture to his entire body. "Well of course I am magnificent Geralt, have you seen me properly? I meant for an evaluation of my performance this evening so far."

"You are the best practitioner of your craft I have ever witnessed. Will that suffice, Songbird?" Geralt is not above exploiting the nickname that makes his bard agreeable. His head is still a mess and if he could just have a minute and hold his bard, Geralt would appreciate it. 

"Let him have his peace," Borys cuts Jaskier off without looking up from his hand of cards. "The man's been staring at you with moon eyes since you hopped up on that hearth. Almost lost his round of Gwent all for watching you."

"Well that certainly is a compliment. I don't remember the last time the White Wolf lost a round of Gwent to someone who was not also a Witcher. Isn't that right Geralt?"

"I don't remember," he says because it is true in every meaning of the phrase.

"I can't tell if you're being serious or funny right now." Jaskier squints at him for effect. 

"Hmm." Geralt has nothing else to say, but it makes Jaskier laugh.

"Thank you for confirming that you're being an ass."

"Glad to be of service," Geralt smiles up at him. Watching Jaskier go a little pink is worth it.

"Ugh," Oskar laments hitting his head on the table, "it's like bein' home."

"Nonsense, your mother has better tits than either of the gentlemen," Borys replies, then looks as Jaskier "no offense meant."

"None taken. I am sure your wife is a very comely woman," Jaskier compliments. 

"She very much is," Borys confirms and waves to her across the room; she smiles at him before turning back to what looks like her own game of cards.

"Oh! I had the pleasure of chatting with her a bit earlier. She is a lovely lady." Jaskier leans back onto Geralt's chest, indicating he is happy in his own relationship and the compliment is exactly that. 

Borys nods. "Ah shit" he grumbles and starts picking up his Gwent cards, "next round's on me. You want your own, Bard, or are you gonna take the Witcher's again?"

He is teasing and Geralt can't help but continue in the vein. "Better bring me two, that way I've a shot at getting one." It's not as if Geralt can drink anything right now, using his good arm to support Jaskier, but the indignation on his face is amusing.

The table laughs and Borys heads off for drinks. Emil grabs his father's deck and begins to shuffle, "do you play Jaskier?"

"I do actually," Jaskier apologizes, "however I don't do so on nights I perform. It makes my break too long if I get drawn into a protracted game. Don't even bring my deck to the event actually."

"That's too bad," Emil says, 'but it makes sense."

"You could play Geralt. He loves Gwent." Geralt taps his hand where it's resting on Jaskier's hip. "Oh right, His hands are occupied."

Emil looks disappointed. 

"Play as long as you like, Songbird. I'll finish what's left of the game when you leave us again," Geralt rumbles in Jaskier's ear. He shivers a bit in Geralt's arms and Geralt just has to press a kiss just above the collar of his doublet. "Go on," Geralt encourages.

Jaskier picks up Geralt's deck with no further hesitation, much to Emil's delight. "I can probably get through one hand before I must be back," and they draw cards.

Borys makes his way back with a pitcher of ale, shrugging, "this seemed more efficient than dealing with six cups individually. I'm a baker not a balancer." 

He and Edmund get the drinks poured; Geralt doesn't bother to reach for his. He is content listening to the chatter around him and edging the tips of his fingers under Jaskier's doublet to pet along polished linen of his chemise.

After losing the first hand, Jaskier frowns, "I really must be getting back." He begins extricating himself from Geralt and reaches for his lute.

"Please, for the love of everything, don't let my sister talk you into any more love songs. Her adoration of you is bad enough without you singing love songs for her to moon over."

"Well that is very flattering, but," Jaskier begins but Geralt talks over him. 

"He's taken."

Jaskier stares half a second before continuing, "quite right, I am taken. Your sister is lovely and will make someone else very happy I am sure." 

"Bard," Borys looks unimpressed, "half the town saw you parade your witcher there through the main fare like you were showing off your grand-prize winning stallion. My daughters are well aware you are taken. Your virtue is completely safe."

Jaskier looks at his direction and Geralt shrugs. He doubts the gaggle of girls are any sort of a threat, even without Jaskier being a Witcher's husband. His bard can surely fend off some amorous village girls without help. And Geralt isn't going anywhere. 

"Right," Jaskier sighs. "Any request from this table of fine gentlemen? I appreciate you keeping our Witcher company whilst I am otherwise occupied."

"Ooooh," Emil brightens up. "Toss a Coin? Any of the versions; it's been stuck in my head for two days."

"I can do that. But are you sure you want to go through with it given you are seated at the White Wolf's table?"

Emil laughs. "I can duck!"

"Anything for such a good audience. Sorry Geralt," Jaskier doesn't sound terribly sorry. With a clap on Geralt's shoulder, his bard saunters off to take up singing. 

What the hell? Why will people need to duck? What is in the song that he should be wary of? Geralt presses his brain into giving him an answer, but he is only given a snatch of wordless melody. Fucking head wound. 

Jaskier begins to sing and Geralt picks up the Gwent game. It is in a terrible state. Either his bard was trying very hard to lose this game on purpose or he is the worst Gwent player Geralt has ever met. 

Geralt has to concentrate on the game and misses a bit of Jaskier singing. And he still loses. Geralt has a good deck, you shouldn't be able to make an entire game unwinnable after just one round. Yet, here he is. He should play his bard in Gwent some time and evaluate if this was on purpose or not. 

"Good game," he tells Emil and drops enough coins into his hand to get more ale when what is on the table runs out. The boy looks pleased to have won and someone starts another game.

Geralt relaxes and enjoys watching Jaskier twirl and sing and have a grand time putting on a show. He actually gets to drink his next cup of ale, as Jaskier's admirers are keeping him well supplied and he doesn't come to take Geralt's. 

Eventually, Jaskier starts sweating and opens his doublet. He has raked his fingers through his hair and his dishevelment only makes him more attractive to Geralt. It doesn't hurt that as the night goes on, the songs become bawdier and Jaskier can make his voice growl. It does _things_ to Geralt.

Geralt plays another game of Gwent, not that he could tell you anything about it other than he won. What he can tell you is that Jaskier hopped up on a chair at one point and it was a lovely sight. Geralt can describe the wink Jaskier flirtatiously gave during a filthy sea shanty. He can also tell you that if the song about a woman critiquing her various lovers' sexual performance had gone on for another lover, Geralt would've hauled Jaskier upstairs to ravish him, damn the audience. 

"Alright, my fine folk, I regret to inform you this is my last song of the evening. However, an outstanding young gentleman requested 'Toss a Coin to Your Witcher' and who am I to refuse such a request?" The crowd starts clapping when he announces the song and he has to nearly yell to be heard over the noise. "Especially since we have said Witcher gracing us with his presence tonight?"

The crowd gets louder and Jaskier reaches into his bowl and tosses a gleaming silver coin across the bar. Geralt reflexively catches it, and stares at it in confusion. What the hell is going on now?

_When a humble bard  
Graced a ride along  
With Geralt of Rivia  
Along came this song _

The song is... electric. The song tells a very embellished story of Geralt destroying an evil sorcerer and freeing the people from his oppression. Geralt is again made out to be a folk hero worthy of praise and coins apparently. People sing along and stomp their boots. Toward the end of the song, Jaskier gets back on his chair and gets a boot up on the table. 

_That's my epic tale  
Our champion prevailed  
Defeated the villain  
Now pour him some ale _

_Toss a coin to your Witcher  
O Valley of Plenty!  
O Valley of Plenty!  
Toss a coin to your Witcher  
A friend of humanity _

Somewhere in that was a cue Geralt did not know. As soon as the last bout of the chorus starts, Jaskier's voice ringing loudly over his audience, coins rain down on Geralt's corner table. They land on the table, bounce off the wall, Iand on and bounce off of Geralt. His tablemates duck and lean away to avoid being hit and get pelted by badly aimed coins anyway. Emil gives up and gets under the table. It seems everyone in the bar feels the need to 'Toss a Coin' and Geralt is the only Witcher here to target. 

Geralt has to consciously suppress every instinct he has to fight back. This is not an attack. This is the opposite of an attack. It is appreciation and welcome and acceptance all wrapped up in little copper coins raining from the hands of grateful humans. His bard has stood on a chair and sung his truth and convinced everyone in this room that Geralt is valuable. 

Geralt forces himself to endure the onslaught of coin, firstly, because as annoying as it is, it is harmless. Secondly, if this song makes him welcome in towns and all he has to endure is people throwing money at his chest, he can deal with it for the sake of his bard. Thirdly, money is money and if nothing else, he can use it to ensure his bard has some small comforts as they travel.

Although, if Geralt is being completely honest, he stays still because Jaskier is beaming. He looks sweaty and exhausted and elated all at once, his smile bright and his chest heaving. And he's looking at Geralt like Jaskier has just won something and wants Geralt to share his joy. All Geralt has to do to earn that sunshine smile is to stay still and let little coins harmlessly fall.


	6. Missing Six?

Geralt is surrounded by coins. He gathers up the ones on his shirt and piles them on the table to get them off of him. Around him, his tablemates are doing the same. Oskar looks distinctly displeased to have been in the line of fire, shaking a silver out of his curly locks and onto the table. 

Emil emerges from under the table, hands full of coins. "I swept up what fell to the floor while I was down there, Master Witcher. Does this happen every time?"

Geralt thinks of Jaskier apologizing when he agreed to take the request, "I do believe it does."

Borys laughs, "I'll refrain from tossing anything since I've bought you an ale."

"I appreciate your restraint," Geralt deadpans, which sends everyone into laughter.

Edmund fishes a coin out of his drink and drops it on the pile of copper and silver accumulated on the table. "Whoever tossed that ought to get points for style, I think."

Jaskier makes it over to the table, still loose and happy and smiling at Geralt. He drops down sideways in the Witcher's lap, completely trusting Geralt to hold him upright, which he does. He wonders how long it took his bard to consider Geralt's mutated strength an asset. "I did warn all of you," he laughs, gesturing to everyone at the table. 

This time Jaskier does not discreetly reach for Geralt's belt, instead he sets down his lute and reaches for the coin purse with both hands. No one at the table says anything about the bard apparently groping his Witcher in public but he does get some raised eyebrows. When he has the purse free, he adds the pile of coins on the table and his own earnings both. Jaskier grins when he feels the end result, and ties it back on Geralt's belt. 

"Thank you for playing my request, Bard Jaskier," Emil says, "it was wonderful."

"Oh," Jaskier laughs, leaning back against Geralt and stealing his drink all in one motion, "Toss a Coin is still one of my favorite tunes I've written. Kicked off our whole career, right Geralt? Of course the first version's lyrics are shit, but I've gotten so much better over the years. I just can't leave it be, so I write new verses whenever Geralt is," Jaskier trails off, considering Geralt, "particularly inspiring."

Jaskier moves as he talks, waving his arms and gesturing with his cup. He even toys with the ends of Geralt's hair, flopping them for effect.

"The first one I actually remember is the one about the bandit raid," Emil offers.

"Ooooh, now that one has lovely lyrics. It's the one I took to the Bardic Invitational Championship in Oxenfurt and left with the high prize. It was actually the first time I won that particular accolade. Not sure if the judges were a fan of all the fire references or the fact I nearly died," he shrugs. Jaskier sings the lyrics, soft enough to only be audible to their corner of the room,

_ "Through the wretched keep   
A blaze of steel and flame   
The White Wolf cut his path   
and then spake my name _

_ He gave them one last chance   
mercy did they spurn   
my blood on their hands   
final rest they did earn _

_ Toss a coin to your Witcher.   
O Valley of Plenty!   
O Valley of Plenty!   
Toss a coin to your Witcher   
O Valley of Plenty!" _

Every time Jaskier references him in the song, he touches Geralt's face. It is distracting. Especially since he should be focusing on the fact he allowed Jaskier to get kidnapped, provided this was based on a true happening. Also, his bard has won a professional musical award, one so famous even Geralt has heard of it, more than once. And he can feel his bard's breath against his cheek. 

Geralt is having many, many conflicting feelings based on this abundance of information.

"How accurate is that one?" Borys asks.

"As accurate as most things I sing about Geralt," Jaskier answers with a shrug, "I was captured by mercenaries who thought they could use me as leverage to get the White Wolf to do something or the other. I'm not sure. Doesn't matter. All I know is I was knocked unconscious, abducted from our terrible room at the inn, not like the inn here, which is lovely and we appreciate all the comforts it offers, and woke up in a terrible crumbling watchtower tied to a damp chair with some moron wondering how to address a ransom note to Geralt. For people who had just kidnapped a bard, they were awfully worried about using an appropriate title for the Witcher they had taken me from."

Jaskier looks thoughtful for a moment before moving on. "I told them to let me go and point me to town and maybe Geralt wouldn't have noticed that  I was missing. They didn't like that much and I got a black eye for that. Then I proceeded to call them terrible things in all of the four languages I knew at the time, insulting someone in Elder is actually a challenge. About a quarter hour after they dispatched the messenger to Geralt, he showed up like a spirit of vengeance and made everyone sorry and burned the place down."

"I did not set fire to the keep," Geralt is not pouting, but that bit sounds incredibly incorrect.

"Well true, but abandoned watchtower has too many syllables. Also, you most certainly set fire to the place," Jaskier pauses to give him a pointed look and poking Geralt in the chest, "you kicked over a brazier and set two of the thugs on fire by doing it, who ran around whilst being on fire, thereby setting anything that wasn't terribly damp on fire. And then, for good measure, you beheaded the idiot who sliced open my arm to taunt you and threw a dagger into the one who shot an arrow at you. I distinctly remember the room being very much on fire by the time you cut my bonds."

"Hmm," he didn't find a scar from the cut earlier, but if Geralt had been carrying human healing potions with him, it might not have left a significant one.

"How many versions are there?" Emil asks.

"Ummm," Jaskier is ticking off an invisible list on his fingers, "seven. Over the years, that's not bad actually. I have far more songs about the White Wolf's exploits of course, but seven have involved me directly enough that Toss a Coin is the best choice."

That is a lot of events. Shit. He is going to be really careful to not alert his bard to the fact he remembers none of his songs since they are all, in fact, about things Geralt actually has done with some degree of accuracy. Geralt had assumed this was the case, but the confirmation makes it more pressing concern.

Around them, people were starting to gather their belongings and say goodbyes. Now that the entertainment had finished for the evening, many people were heading home. A few stop by to compliment Jaskier and he has kind words for all of them, never moving from Geralt's lap. Geralt is glad of this because it gives him an excuse not to shake hands and he can let his bard do the talking. Jaskier is so good with people and Geralt is shamelessly benefiting from it.

Borys's wife and daughters, clearly daughters for how much they favor their mother, make their way over to collect Borys and head home. Jaskier tenses a little when he recognizes them, glancing at Borys. Before they reach the table, he settles back against Geralt, trying to touch as much of Geralt as possible. He even goes so far as to tuck his hand posessively down the front of Geralt's shirt, all the way in Geralt's shirt. Not that Geralt minds Jaskier absently petting his chest, the open affection from his bard is nice, but Geralt does not see anything that would make his bard insecure enough to put on such a blatant display.

Once the ladies start talking, however, Geralt understands. One of the daughters is aggressively flirting with Jaskier, who could not clearly be more taken. Maybe if Geralt had an uninjured hand to splay across his bard's thigh. She brashly offers to continue their previous conversation at one of the now empty tables as Jaskier doesn't even have his own seat at this one. Or in a quiet room upstairs.

Jaskier fidgets uncomfortably under the attention, but Geralt can do something about this. He puts on his sharpest smile and makes sure to speak loud enough for human ears. "Shall I take you to bed, my Songbird?" Geralt runs his nose along Jaskier's exposed neck, keeping half an eye on the flirtatious daughter. She looks startled, as if just noticing Geralt for the first time. How do you miss that the person you are flirting with is sitting on another person?

Jaskier shivers in his arms, a good kind of shiver. The anticipatory kind. Everyone notices. Jaskier takes the opening to say their goodnights and with good humor and politeness maneuver them upstairs to their room. Geralt hears no other guests on the way to their room and is glad when their own door is shut and locked behind them. 

He has had more interaction with strangers today than he cares for and it is a relief to be alone with his bard. Which is strange in itself, to feel the relief of being alone while not actually being alone. For all he does not have ready access to any useful memories of his bard, he does not feel like a stranger and Geralt is content to stay with him for an unlimited amount of time. He feels like a very odd but not unwelcome extension of himself. Like Roach, but not nearly as predictable. 

Jaskier chatters as he puts away their things, taking advantage of the space now that the tub has been removed, and strips himself down to clothes only appropriate to wear in the privacy of your bedchambers. Geralt only manages to rid himself of his belt and boots in the same amount of time. "Really Geralt, she can't have been more than eighteen, possibly, if I were to be generous in the assessment. And rounded up. I am much too old to be of interest to her."

"I seem to remember you being eighteen when you decided to pursue a Witcher who is approaching a century in age," Geralt points out. Because Jaskier has confirmed those facts in the past two days and the hypocrisy of Jaskier's words cannot lie silent.

"Ugh," Jaskier makes a dismissive noise. "We are not talking about me or my life choices, Geralt. We are talking about how I look old enough to be her father, therefore not to be flirted at in front of said father. I don't need an angry father stabbing me, we have reached our injury allowance for the time being."

"He wouldn't stab you," Geralt says reasonably, "and you don't yet look thirty." 

"That's not what your witch, Yennefer of Vengerburg, says every moment she is in my company," Jaskier pouts. "She said I had CROW'S FEET, Geralt!" He throws his hands in exasperation. 

"You don't have crow's feet," Geralt assures. He is never going to admit that he finds Jaskier pouting over nonsense adorable.

"Yes, well…" Jaskier stops and trails off suddenly, looking at Geralt as if all his hair has fallen off. "I just said 'Yennefer of Vengerburg,'" Jaskier states slowly.

"You did." Geralt has missed a cue. Shit.

"And you said nothing," Jaskier continues meaningfully. 

Oh gods. Geralt is supposed to know who that is. Fuck. "What should I have said?"

"What should I have said," Jaskier parrots back. "What should I have said," he tries again in a different tone, like the meaning will change if he just says it differently. It, evidently, does not.

Jaskier climbs onto the bed with Geralt and moves in close, butting both his knees against Geralt's thigh. He takes Geralt's face in his hands, forcing Geralt to look him directly in the eye, and says with all seriousness, "this is very important. Do not lie to me. Who is Yennefer of Vengerburg?"

Geralt tries. He pushes against the invisible wall in his memory, willing something to come through. Something to let him get by without a catastrophic failure. He gets nothing. "I don't know."

"Do you remember Rinde? The Djinn? Any of it?" Jaskier asks frantically, staring into Geralt's eyes, seemingly waiting for a flicker of recognition.

Geralt decides to answer as openly as he can. He is caught and hopefully Jaskier isn't too upset. Maybe he will forgive Geralt for forgetting and Geralt can convince him not to leave. "Only feelings. I felt panic when I touched the scar."

Jaskier pulls Geralt's hand to his throat, pressing Geralt's fingertips to the scar. "Anything?"

He traces the scar, nothing new. "I'm sorry," he answers sincerely. 

"That's alright. It's alright." Jaskier is talking to himself, "you don't remember Yennefer or the Djinn or the wish or the magic. You don't remember the Djinn…" he trails off, looking thoughtful.

"I don't…" Geralt starts, not knowing how to finish. Jaskier stuffs a hand over his mouth before he can figure it out.

"I know. I usually encourage you to talk. But right now I am not as sober as I should be to deal with the fact you have six years gone so you need to keep your beautiful Witcher mouth closed and let me think." Jaskier keeps the hand over Geralt's mouth, pressing gently, and continues gesturing with the other.

"You don't remember the Djinn… So what does that mean? That the magic isn't pulling on you?" he pauses, looking thoughtful. "That's it, isn't it? This is you without the Djinny Djinn influence. No wishes, no magic, no Yennefer," he spits that name out like it's distasteful, "just you. Can it really be that simple?" Jaskier slumps back against the end of the bed, away from Geralt. "Gods, who knew it changed so much? Melitele, six years." He sounds a bit lost, as if he is finding out his world isn't as he thought it should be. Geralt understands. 

"You should know that whatever volume of memory I have lost, my feelings for you remain unaltered," Geralt states with conviction, because it is true. Geralt only remembers small pieces of the missing time, but all of them are Jaskier and under any immediate feeling the memory brings, he feels like this. Like he should be wherever his bard is, like he should care for him, protect him, love him.

"You feel... fuck," Geralt can see Jaskier processing his words. After a moment, Jaskier climbs into Geralt's lap, straddling his thighs and setting a hand gingerly on Geralt's shoulder and resting the other against his neck. "Tell me how this feels to you. And also perhaps don't kill me for it," he adds as disclaimer.

Then, Jaskier kisses him.

Geralt has kissed, not necessarily a lot of people considering his age, but enough people to understand how it feels. The give and the take and its use in moving things along toward their inevitable conclusion. Most whores don't bother and Geralt wouldn't push them for something not readily on offer, but enough do enjoy it that he thinks he has gotten a good sampling of what the activity has to offer.

Geralt is wrong. 

Kissing the object of your affection, the person you have chosen and who chooses you in return, makes a kiss very, very different. The mechanics have not changed but the emotions it drags from Geralt are new. It's like breathing and drowning simultaneously. The feel of his medallion humming but pushing out from inside the depths of his chest. It is more than a means to an end and Geralt likes this experience better. It's satisfying in an entirely new way, more than the casual, affectionate kisses he has been afforded so far.

As Geralt makes plans to continue for some time and gathers the bard in his arms, Jaskier stops.

He pulls back far enough, Geralt's arm won't let him get far, to look into Geralt's inhuman eyes and ask, in a breathy voice, "so… um… did you feel anything from that?"

"Disappointment that you stopped," Geralt teases, smiling up at Jaskier. If they could get back to kissing, Geralt would appreciate it. He takes the initiative to start again and leans forward.

"No, be good for one minute," Jaskier pulls back again, regaining the slight space between them, "Do you remember anything? Feel differently about me? The need to leave me at the top of a mountain with a very precarious trail, perhaps?"

What? No.

"No. My affections and wishes are unchanged. I want you as I always have: safe and contented and mine."

"Gods Geralt," Jaskier sighs. He closes his eyes and rests his head against Geralt's, close enough for their noses to brush. "You could stop a poet's heart with a declaration like that."

"As long as yours keeps beating, we'll be alright," he bumps Jaskier's nose with his own for emphasis. Geralt can feel himself smiling. They rest like that for a quiet moment, foreheads together and noses brushing, and Geralt hopes he has said the right things.

"We will be alright then," his bard laughs out softly. 

And then, thank any and all of the applicable gods, Jaskier goes back to kissing him. Having feelings is exhausting, experiencing feelings is so much better.

Geralt sinks into it, letting Jaskier do as he likes. Jaskier is good at this, drawing out sensations with his lips and tongue and teeth. Gods, no one has ever tried to nip Geralt before, at least not in a seductive manner. He wonders if any human has been bold enough to bite at a Witcher. Other than his. Geralt likes it.

Jaskier settles his weight fully on Geralt, pressing himself close. Geralt can feel the warmth of him through their clothing. He's solid and strong and for once, Geralt isn't worried he might accidentally hurt his partner. It is true that Jaskier is beautiful and elegant. While he may look delicate and fragile next to Geralt's massive frame, perched in his lap as if he weighs no more than a feather, he is a fit, muscular man fully capable of standing a Witcher's casual strength. Geralt would have to intend to do harm to cause any damage beyond a mild bruise or a lovebite. Geralt's hands do enough violence as he follows the Path, he has no taste for it in bedsport.

Geralt runs his arm under Jaskier's chemise and across his back just to feel the muscles under his hands again. Jaskier groans into Geralt's mouth, as pleased with the touch as Geralt is with doing touching.

It would be arousing enough if Jaskier was only kissing, an activity he has elevated to another form of art, but Geralt is also treated to Jaskier hands touching his face, his neck, subtly unbrading his hair and dragging his fingers through it once it is loose. His body is also moving, small grinding motions, ensuring Geralt is completely, maddeningly hard. Judging by what he can feel against his erection, so is Jaskier. At least Geralt can get them out of their pants and some relief. 

It takes Geralt longer than he would ever admit to work his arm out of the damned sling. He keeps getting distracted by Jaskier's lips or his teeth or his fingers scratching against Geralt's scalp. But he finally, finally gets a hold of Jasker's laces and pulls, trying to work his erection free with one hand while his good arm steadies Jaskier in his lap. He can just brush it with his fingertips when Jaskier pulls back again. 

He's breathing heavy and flushed and his blue eyes are dilated with desire. "Alright. We're doing this, yeah?" he breathes out, waiting for confirmation.

Geralt nods, because yes, they are doing this. He wants Jaskier's cock, well, anywhere it pleases Jaskier, and at least one orgasm each. And maybe to lick Jaskier, just a little. Doesn't Jaskier know Geralt will give him anything he wants?

"Of course we are, because I am a weak man and never have been able to tell you no. Fuck." Jaskier kisses him again, firm and fleeting. "Okay, we're going to do this. And we are going to be so, so careful so as not to hurt you." Jaskier is combing his fingers through Geralt's hair over and over, as if to calm a frightened animal. As to whether he is trying to soothe Geralt or himself, Geralt is unsure. Maybe both of them.

Geralt has never had a sexual partner worry about being careful with him. Ever. Worry about Geralt's mutations? Yes. His ability to be careful? Yes. If he would cause harm to them? Always. But none ever worried about hurting Geralt. He is not sure Jaskier could hurt him, even as injured as Geralt is, not enough to matter, not without a weapon. Then again, any amount of hurt Geralt endures distresses his bard and therefore matters. Geralt is still getting used to that and wonders if Real Geralt has.

"We will be careful," Geralt affirms.

"So, so careful." Jaskier gives him another kiss and continues, "we are going to finish getting undressed and then I'm going to put your prick in my mouth because I have waited an age to do so."

Jaskier's weight lifts from his lap and Geralt has never wanted to be bare so much in his life. He throws off the sling with no little amount of satisfaction. Jaskier is already stripped to the waist when Geralt looks up. He helps Geralt with his shirt again, and the difference is startling. Before, Jaskier certainly handled Geralt with care, but the touches were efficient. Now though, Jaskier trails his warm hands up Geralt's chest, primarily feeling what he likes, the shirt removal almost an afterthought. He drags a perfectly manicured nail over Geralt's nipple and laughs when he gets a reaction.

Once his shirt is discarded, Geralt retaliates. He pulls Jaskier close enough to bite, just a little, at his gorgeous hip-bones while divesting him of his remaining bit of clothing. His bard's prick his hard and proud and Geralt just has to drag the length of it across his lips to feel the soft velvet. Gods, it's so pretty is all Geralt can think and he puts his mouth to use. He holds Jaskier's hips still and it pleases him that when he splays his fingers just so, he has a perfect grip for each hand.

His bard makes beautiful noises and Geralt earns an emphatic 'oh fuck, darling' by suckling on the head of his cock. The weight of it as he lets it slide in and out and over his tongue is perfect. Jaskier has one hand in Geralt's hair, not pulling, although Geralt would be up for that when he doesn't have a head wound, but holding on like an anchor point. Like Geralt might leave or stop or do something equally as improbable. His fingers twitch when Geralt runs his tongue around the crown, but he keeps from doing anything Geralt would find painful. 

Jaskier cups Geralt's cheek, touching Geralt's mouth with his thumb, feeling the slide of his own cock between Geralt's lips. Geralt looks up to find his bard staring back with equal parts love and lust and amazement. "You are exquisite," Jaskier tells him with a voice full of sincerity and lust and even love.

Geralt doesn't know how to respond to a compliment like that so he distracts himself finding a rhythm working Jaskier's shaft. It really is a nice cock and Geralt is thoroughly enjoying the experience of giving it the attention it deserves. His bard groans his name again and Geralt notices his own prick is enjoying the experience as well. At least it has filled to the point he is concerned about the integrity of his clothes. Geralt has to reluctantly release one hand, giving that glorious ass a parting squeeze, to tug open his trousers and at least give his neglected cock some room.

"Why are you still wearing trousers," Jaskier whines, taking his cock away from Geralt like it's the last thing he wants to do but necessary all the same. He sinks to his knees to help wrestle Geralt free of his trousers, laughing when Geralt's cock springs free and hits his face because he was a little too close. "I did say I wanted to get my mouth on you."

Gods, he is so pretty when he laughs. Geralt leans back, propping up on his good hand to give Jaskier more room to work. He kisses the inside of Geralt's thighs and puts his mouth around Geralt's cock. It's warm and wet and Jaskier keeps tounging Geralt's slit like he is an instrument to be played. Maybe he is, fuck. 

Jaskier slides down his shaft until Geralt can feel his gag reflex engage. Jaskier pulls back and stares at Geralt's prick, which is shiny with spit and missing the warmth of Jaskier's mouth, like it is a puzzle to solve. After a too long moment, where Jaskier plays with Geralt's balls as he thinks, Jaskier makes a decision. He dives back for Geralt's cock and sinks it into his mouth until it pushes in as far as possible, his nose in the white curls at the base of Geralt's cock. If he could, Jaskier would be wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

Geralt groans and lets his head fall back to stare at the wood beams above them. If he looked at what was before him for a minute longer, he would spend much earlier than he wished. It barely helped, Witcher self-control be damned, Jaskier could bring him over at any point he chose. Instead, he draws things out; going hard and fast and doing filthy things with his tongue and hands until Geralt is sure he has no choice but to let go, then Jaskier breaks off to mouth at his balls or bite along his iliac furrow. Just when Geralt feels like he can breathe again, maddeningly, Jaskier starts again.

And Geralt is going to die. He will be slain by his own bard, Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, multiple winner of the Bardic Invitational Championship, and the most beautiful man Geralt has ever seen in real life, because in addition to all of those accolades, he is the most talented cocksucker on the Continent. At least Geralt will die happy.

Geralt hears it when Jaskier finally takes a hand off of Geralt and starts fisting his own erection. Which is flattering, a bit, that working Geralt's cock makes Jaskier want to touch himself. Geralt knows this must be normal for them, bringing yourself off with your lover in your mouth, Geralt would've been happy if the situation was reversed. But… this is the first time Geralt can remember with his husband. And he'll be damned, he's romantic and he wants to feel Jaskier shake apart in his arms.

"Come here," Geralt manages to get out, his voice rougher than usual. He hefts Jaskier up and into his arms, and yes he really shouldn't have done that with the bad arm because fuck it hurts. No matter. He's not going to admit it to anyone. He wrestles them back from the edge of bed, settling Jaskier comfortably in his lap and bracing his own shoulders against the wall. 

"I thought you were enjoying my ministrations?" Jaskier asks, even though he should know the answer. 

"You know I love your mouth," Geralt thumbs over his plush lower lip, "but you were too far away."

"Too far away? I had your magnificent cock down the back of my throat, how is that… Fuck!" Jaskier exclaims when Geralt takes both their pricks in his hand and works them together. 

"Need to hold you," Geralt grits out against Jaskier's throat, because it's important his bard knows that. He grabs with the hand wrapped around Jaskier's back to emphasize it's all of Jaskier he wants.

Jaskier kisses him and Geralt is sure he understands what Geralt means so Geralt can concentrate on making them feel good. It's not going to be long; Jaskier is making tiny, desperate motions with his hips, fucking his cock into Geralt's hand. If Geralt so much as thinks about how good the slide of Jaskier's cock feels against his, how intimate it is to have their shafts pressed together as close as possible, how completely unavoidable the mingling of their seed will be, he will tip over. 

He's going to anyway. Jaskier is panting against Geralt's throat, his thighs are gripping on so tightly they should be steel. Geralt grabs his ass and holds on to feel it move under his hand. Gods, Jaskier is everything, and everything is enough to make him spill his seed over both their cocks.

Geralt wants to fly off into that white-hot pleasure but he keeps his hand moving through sheer will. Jaskier deserves to climax uninterrupted. Jaskier's pants have already turned into little punched-out 'fucks' and Geralt can feel Jaskier start to shake. He can smell Jaskier's seed and feel his cock throb against Geralt's own. Geralt will never forget how they feel pulsing together in his hand, head injuries be damned.

They hold on to each other long enough that each of them remembers how to breathe properly. Jaskier unlatches his teeth from Geralt's neck, when did they get there? He places a soft kiss over what Geralt is sure is a set of teeth marks. Fuck. Geralt loves him so, so much. 

Someone tips them sideways on the bed and Geralt helps Jaskier untangle and re-tangle their legs in a comfortable, horizontal position. Geralt's mind is mush and all there is is Jaskier and he does not care. He sort of instinctively leaves his come covered hand out by the edge of the bed, which is good because it is definitely dripping onto the floor. Which Geralt probably should care about but doesn't.

Jaskier is sprawled out over Geralt, planting lazy kisses on whatever skin is nearest to his lips, like he can't muster the energy to move any more than Geralt can. Geralt is loose and satiated and smiling; he wants for nothing at this moment. 

After some minutes, or many minutes, Geralt isn't bothering to count, Jaskier props his chin up on Geralt and says, "one of us should get a rag. We've just had a bath and are now absolutely covered in mess."

"Smells nice," Geralt responds without even opening an eye. It's how the blankets smelled, when Jaskier tucked him in the bedroll, but fresh and potent. They smell claimed, both of them, in the most intimate way and Geralt is allowed to be smug about that. Jaskier is a treasure.

"Smug asshole," Jaskier retorts fondly, "you like that I smell of your spend. I probably smell all claimed or however you want to call it." Jaskier knows him so well.

"Hmm," Geralt still doesn't open his eyes, "you're not the only one."

"Witcher senses," Jaskier grumbles, but does not actually sound put out. "Lemme grab a rag," he pushes up, flopping to the edge of the bed, "Oh no, Geralt." Now, Jaskier sounds put out.

Geralt opens one eye to see what Jaskier is annoyed about. Apparently the come dripping off of Geralt's hand was not hitting the floor but was, in fact, dripping onto Jaskier's chemise. Jaskier is holding it like it has personally betrayed him. Geralt laughs, full-bodied and loud and smiling. It is a ridiculous situation. 

Jaskier stares indignant for half a second before breaking into his own gales of laughter. "Might as well finish dirtying it up," he gets out and starts laughing again. He does wipe them up, including Geralt's hand, but it takes longer than it should because they can't stop laughing. 

Eventually, Jaskier deems them clean enough to sleep and draws up the blankets. Geralt doesn't want to get out of bed so he uses a very, very gentle Aard to take care of the lamps. His bard doesn't do anything other than sigh contentedly in his arms as the sign extinguishes the light, because this is their normal. He has almost drifted to sleep when Jaskier speaks again.

"I don't have another clean shirt, Geralt," he complains into the darkness. 

"I'll just have to keep you in bed until the laundry comes mid-morning."


	7. The Morning After

Geralt wakes up. He is comfortable, warm, well-fed, and spooning Jaskier. Jaskier, who is sleeping peacefully, safe and warm, tucked into the curve of Geralt's body. Jaskier who is beyond talented and clever and could have anyone he wanted and chooses to stay with Geralt. Geralt tucks his nose further into Jaskier's hair and breathes in. All he can smell is the scent of his bard's hair and remnants of last night's pleasant activities. It is already a good day.

His shoulder aches, it should hurt less by now. Geralt definitely set back the healing some when he hoisted Jaskier up, but if he could do it over, he wouldn't change the decision. He will even wear the sling if Jaskier wishes him to do so, with minimal grumbling. He finds himself with less of a headache this morning, hopefully some of his memories have healed as well. 

He tries to see if any memories have returned, but all that surfaces is the way Jaskier laughs and the feel of his cock against Geralt's lips and his teeth in Geralt's neck as he spills over Geralt's hand. Which is not what he was going for, but it's a memory to cherish all the same. If he learns enough and makes enough new memories, maybe he can get by if the rest of them never return. He can memorize every song Jaskier has ever written and listen to any anecdote he tells and do everything in his power to keep Jaskier content. Jaskier handled the fact Geralt is missing several years fairly well, so maybe he won't mind staying with Geralt if the memories never return.

Geralt lays quietly for a while. He doesn't need any additional sleep, but he is loathe to get out of bed. It's still early; he has no pressing business and his coin purse is full. Roach is in the care of a decent person and probably is eating her way through forkfuls of hay. He can just enjoy the still new-to-him feeling of laying in bed with someone who trusts you enough to sleep deeply. He doesn't bother keeping track of time.

Jaskier wakes up slowly. Fidgeting and squirming and nuzzling the pillow before finding Geralt's hand wrapped securely around him and patting it a few times. Then he grabs it and pulls it up in front of his face; Geralt's bard is adorable when he is sleepy and confused. 

"Morning Songbird," Geralt rumbles. 

He can watch Jaskier take stock of the situation, pushing up a bit on his elbows to look down at Geralt. "How much did I drink last night?"

"Not enough to ask that question," Geralt is doing his best not to laugh at him. His bard probably needs some morning tea.

"Thought as much." He runs a hand sleepily over his face, "and you're missing six years or thereabouts of memory?"

"That's what you tell me," he doesn't seem upset, just confirming. Oh wait, that's probably not what he meant. "I've remembered nothing new since last night."

Jaskier nods, agreeing with the information. "And," he trails off for a second like he is unsure, "and we had sex so good my brain melted a bit?"

"High praise, but yes." Geralt is only a little smug that he managed to melt Jaskier's brain.

Jaskier rubs at his eyes again and concentrates on Geralt's face briefly before he faceplants back into the pillow. After spending some quaility time face down, and Geralt does not laugh even though it is a close thing, he mutters, "ok fuck. Here we go," to himself and sits up on his knees facing Geralt. 

Geralt tries to adjust himself so he is the right height to continue the conversation, but having a bad shoulder makes sitting up an awkward transition. Jaskier sees him wince and helps him up, helping him settle back against the wall. Both of them notice the dark line of dried blood staining the bedsheet, just under where his injured shoulder would have rested last night.

Fuck.

"Do we need to go back to the healer?" his bard asks anxiously. 

Geralt looks at the wound, it looks a bit aggravated but everything is sealed up and covered over again. He probably just opened it up when he moved them around last night. He wouldn't have even noticed it happened before, when he didn't have Jaskier to make him evaluate his injuries. "Looks fine. I'll be careful today," he promises.

Jaskier does not look appeased. He is fussing with the sheets, wrapping them so that they cover Geralt to the waist and uses an extra corner to cover his soft cock, holding it in place. With his huge blue eyes, soft mouth, and sleep-mussed hair, he looks like an oil painting you might find in the main room of a high-class brothel, tasteful, yet so, so titillating. Geralt wants to purchase a house so he can hang that painting over the fire in their bedchambers. He's getting distracted.

"Geralt," Jaskier begins, "fuck." He runs a hand through his hair and starts again, "I just want to apologize for taking advantage last night. You're not well and I shouldn't have…"

"No, Songbird, no," Geralt gets out. He can't let Jaskier think anything resembling that. If he were presented the same choice a hundred times over, Geralt would always choose aggravating the injury over missing the intimacy of the night before. "I am not so impaired you need to protect me from my own decisions."

"No regrets in the morning light?" His voice is light, as if he did not care either way what the answer should be. To Geralt at least, it is obvious he cares very much.

Geralt looks at the blood on the sheets and thinks of his hurting shoulder and looks at his bard. He comments on the one thing that bothers him. "Only that you find any of it distressing." 

Jaskier still seems hesitant, so Geralt moves the sheet from his waist. He pats his leg, offering his bard the same seat he made use of last night. Jaskier joins him, burrowing into his side and flopping one leg between Geralt's own. Laying skin on skin must have its own kind of magic; as he and Jaskier adjust to eliminate any unnecessary space, his bard relaxes. Geralt wraps them back up.

He didn't necessarily want to have a conversation where he was asked if he regretted having sex, but this is better than Jaskier worrying. He cares so much and Geralt needs to try and make his life easier. He guesses Real Geralt has made some poor decisions recently, in the past six years, and unsettled their bond. However, he's not here so Geralt will have to keep going as he has been, muddling his way through using his bard's happiness as a guidepost.

There are unburned logs in the hearth, properly stacked and ready for use. There was no need for a fire last night and they were plenty warm sharing their bed in the inn. Geralt could set it alight easily, and his bard would let him. "Want a fire?"

"Actually, that would be nice," Jaskier answers, not lifting his head from Geralt's shoulder. 

Geralt takes his hand from Jaskier's back and makes his sign, starting a fire from the comfort of their bed. "Pretty," Jaskier comments as the logs start to burn. It's romantic almost, with a fire burning and cuddling with his husband in their bed, wearing nothing but a sheet across their hips. And isn't that a thing for a Witcher to think?

He forgot to check if Jaskier was bothered by the Igni. That's progress.

Jaskier seems happier, more relaxed. He's managed to worm one arm behind Geralt's back and the other is playing the imaginary lute strings on Geralt's hip. He's humming, which doesn't surprise Geralt; he has learned that Jaskier is always talking or singing or otherwise using his voice. He fills in the spaces that otherwise Geralt would leave empty. Geralt kisses his hair, because he can.

"Geralt, can I ask you a question?" Jaskier ventures carefully.

"Hmm?" Geralt keeps petting Jaskier. He does not point out the Jaskier just asked him a question.

"If you're missing, quite a lot of memories actually, how did you remember what I was wearing last spring when you took down the wyvern?"

"Hmm." That is a very good question. He does owe his bard an explanation so he tries to describe how it feels. "It feels like a wall has been constructed between me and the memories of the missing time. They're not gone but kept from me. Sometimes I get a small piece that breaks through. Like a fragment of you wiping my face standing over the body of a wyvern."

"So, I just tell you a story and you remember a bit of it?" Jaskier asks.

"Not always. Mostly I get nothing. Sometimes it's only a feeling, or even a few bars of your songs." Geralt wishes he could see Jaskier's face as he considers the new information, so he could better judge how well it is being received.

"Do you…" Jaskier trails off unhappily. "Nevermind, it's stupid."

"Go ahead and ask, I can't promise a satisfactory answer."

"We had a fight, a little while ago, during a hunt in the Caingorn mountains. I was just wondering if you remembered anything of it." He doesn't look at Geralt as he asks, keeping his face pressed against Geralt's shoulder.

_ Caingorn mountains. He and Jaskier were sitting together admiring a vista. Jaskier was wearing red. _

_ "We could head to the coast," Jaskier pauses, "get away for a while." _

Which, to Geralt as he currently sits holding Jaskier safe against his chest, seems like a perfectly reasonable suggestion. So why did he feel like he couldn't? Like he wanted to agree and the heavy tether of duty told him he couldn't. He was upset and angry and felt he had no choice but to say no. 

Why would he say no?

He can say yes now though. Whatever the issue was, if it hasn't been resolved, Jaskier will tell him. And they can go now, since they didn't then. Geralt has nothing to hold him, other than his bard.

"You wanted to go to the coast and I told you no even though I wanted to agree. I don't remember what obligation I had," Geralt summarizes.

Jaskier nods his head a little against Geralt's shoulder. "You had taken a contract. We had thought the client had died, and uh, you wanted to see it through," he explains.

That sounds... less than ideal. Jaskier still sounds upset; he must have wanted to leave after the client died and Geralt wanted to finish the contract. Naturally, that would cause an argument. Everything is obviously done with now, since Geralt has taken and completed a different contract that cost him his memory. Geralt knows he can lash out when feeling defensive and the argument must have been fierce to weigh on Jaskier still. The time off together would be good for both of them. "We could go now, if you still wanted."

Jaskier looks up at him, surprised. "You'd be willing to do that?"

"I see no reason not to. You want to go. I want to go with you. Do we have obligations that would prevent us?"

"Do we…" Jaskier trails off, sounding a bit taken aback. Perhaps he has a performance engagement. Geralt is never obligated past the current contract, and maybe to return to Kaer Morhen for the winter with his brothers, and that can be skipped a year. "No, we don't actually."

Geralt kisses him thoroughly. After he pulls back he replies, "Then we shall go once you give me permission to travel."

Jaskier looks a bit like he still does not believe Geralt, like he will take it back so Jaskier shouldn't adjust to the idea. Geralt spends some time just kissing and touching his bard, trying to erase that look from his face. 

Somehow kissing turns into Geralt lying in bed with his bard propped up on top of him, trading kisses and soft touches. There is no hurry, or even really a point other than to be together, which suits Geralt fine.

Jaskier props his head up on his hand to look at Geralt, kiss swollen lips and sleepy eyes, "you really would just go somewhere because it would please me." It's a statement, not a question, so Geralt doesn't answer.

Jaskier smiles softly, like Geralt's face was answer enough. He settles down along Geralt's side, running his free hand over Geralt's chest, idly following the curvature of the muscles and the paths formed by the scars cutting across them. Geralt could lie here forever.

"You are unfairly and obscenely handsome, did you know?" Jaskier asks, as if commenting on the state of the roads.

Geralt hears a group come in downstairs and the mention of laundry. Their clothes must be ready. Geralt groans, one of them will have to get out of bed and at least cover their personal bits to answer the door. Geralt is more awake than Jaskier, he might as well meet them at the door.

Getting out of bed alarms Jaskier. He looks at Geralt with hurt expression, "was it something I said?"

Geralt gestures to the door, "on the way up with laundry." He listens while getting on trousers without aggravating his shoulder, "three sets of footfalls." He can hear them talking, three girls it sounds like, one of which was Jaskier's admirer last night.

He yanks at the laces, getting them tight enough to stay up but not bothering to fasten everything properly. Jaskier is… combing Geralt's chest hair. He looks down at Jaskier's hand then at Jaskier and raises an eyebrow in question..

"Well, you look a bit like I've been groping you and I was trying to neaten it up," Jaskier says as justification.

"You have been groping me," Geralt chuckles. If Geralt cared about propriety, he'd bother with a shirt.

"Fair point, but since I'm not answering the door," he gestures to his naked body, barely concealed by the sheet, "you should try and look presentable."

"I look like I've been roused out of bed, where my lover is waiting for my timely return," Geralt snarks. Jaskier sighs and burrows back under the covers. 

Geralt can hear the girls talking. He goes to grab the coin purse. Well, one of the coin purses, they have multiple. Geralt's life has become strange.

"What if it's too early? I don't wanna wake him up."

"I do, he probably looks glorious in the morning."

"Hush you, you're lucky we let you come at all."

"Maybe it'll be the Witcher! He's so handsome."

"Surely they're not sharing a room."

"Mary and I washed every one of these clothes and I assure you they were as mixed in as can be. They're sharing a room."

There is a knock on the door. Geralt opens it to find three young women, two up front carrying a basket of neatly folded laundry and, unsurprisingly to Geralt, Borys's flirtatious daughter standing down the hall a few paces. 

"Is Bard Jaskier available?" one asks, her voice is the one that was adamant there would only be one room.

"He's having a restful morning," Geralt motions back behind him with his head, turning it just enough to show off where Jaskier's teeth should've left a mark.

The laundress smirks. "It's good of you to let him have his rest this morning. He worked so very hard last night," she replies with no small bit of innuendo. Geralt likes her. At least the second laundress has the decency to look embarrassed. Borys's daughter settles for looking unhappy.

"Hmm," Geralt replies, refraining from laughing. "What is the charge for your services?"

The laundress names a reasonable price, which Geralt pays, along with a bonus to each girl for the delivery. He takes the laundry, thanks them, and shuts the door.

"The White Wolf is so handsome. Jaskier is lucky."

"At least you got to see him, Jaskier didn't even come to the door," Borys's daughter whines.

"Both of you are ridiculous."

Geralt laughs a little. Jaskier gives him a questioning look so he explains, "your admirers were disappointed you didn't answer the door in the nude."

Jaskier shrugs. "I guess you'll have to enjoy my physical form in their stead," he teases, throwing the sheet back dramatically and stretching his body artistically over the entire bed. 

Geralt makes a dismissive noise at the thought of Jaskier's admirers getting anything of the sort from his husband and makes to rejoin him in their bed. He again looks like risqué oil painting, and Geralt wants to touch. Getting back out of these trousers is the next step.

"What're you doing?"

"Coming back to bed," Geralt answers with a smile that does not leave ambiguity as to what he plans to do once he is back in bed.

"Today, I have been blessed," Jaskier smirks and grabs at Geralt's hips to guide him back into the bed.


	8. In The Open

Geralt has the best week he can remember, which says a lot about his life up until now, considering the circumstances. He suffered severe injury while completing a contract, nearly died, lost years of his memory, and has been forced into a meticulous recovery by his bard. He has suffered visiting a human healer and the wearing of a sling for the past five days. He also has been befriended by townsfolk and slept in a comfortable bed with an agreeable companion and enough good food and coin that neither is an immediate concern.

Realistically, Geralt has to have had better weeks than this. The fact that he has a husband who loves him and has likely done so for over a decade makes it statistically likely there has been a week, perhaps many weeks, pleasant enough to make one where he has suffered a severe injury and memory loss seem like a bad week. 

But Geralt can't remember those. 

Geralt learns many things over the course of the week. The most obvious thing being that Jaskier talks... a lot. He fills all the spaces where Geralt would expect silence and Geralt finds he doesn't mind. He talks when they get dressed, as he lovingly arranges Geralt's hair each day, when they dine, when they walk, all the time really. He whispers things into Geralt's ear when he is spread out over Geralt, boneless and content. He sings as often as he talks, snatches of songs he's written, lyrics that pass through his head.

He tells Geralt stories of them, mostly in the past six years, trying to fill gaps in Geralt's memory. Sometimes he gets off-topic and brings up something older which he believes Geralt should know, but Geralt encourages him to finish anyway, telling Jaskier he likes to hear his version of events because they are exaggerated to the point of humor. Jaskier scoffs at him, kicking him under the table more than once, and continues anyway. Geralt sometimes gets new flashes of memory, always Jaskier: his face, his voice, his songs, his clothes.

Jaskier also touches Geralt, all of the time. He grasps Geralt's hand to lead him places or worms his hand around Geralt's arm, only ever the good one, when he is content to follow. He touches Geralt casually, poking him for emphasis or absently fiddling with his hand while thinking or knocking their knees together under the table with a smile. He touches Geralt intentionally, running his hands over Geralt in the privacy of their room like he is a favorite instrument, precious and well-loved. Geralt is surprisingly good at touching back, considering he has had so little practice. Jaskier accepts them easily, pleased with the attention. 

As Geralt is convalescing in a small farming town, there are a limited number of activities for diversion. However, that does not stop Jaskier and he from doing things. They take walks, Jaskier holding Geralt's good arm all the while, and visit the townspeople Jaskier insists on calling Geralt's friends. They go to the bakery and spend an entire morning watching Borys and his family turn flour into impressively diverse and complex loaves of bread. Geralt is forbidden from helping, but he does hold Jaskier's doublet to keep it clean as he attempts to knead dough. The loaf ends up overworked but edible.

They visit Gosia, who Geralt likes much better when he is not a patient. They have a nice discussion about different potion ingredients and the foraging situation near the town. Meanwhile Jaskier wanders around the yard and touches things he probably should not be touching but are thankfully harmless. Geralt needs to teach him some additional herb lore for his own safety. Gosia does take a peek at Geralt's shoulder and makes disapproving noises at Jaskier, reminding him that Geralt shouldn't be straining himself having sex while he is healing. Oddly enough, she doesn't bother chastising Geralt for his part in his own sex life.

They don't spend every moment together, not after Jaskier feels he has an understanding of what happened to his Witcher. Jaskier will settle down to write songs or find someone to chat with and Geralt would head off to the stables to check on Roach. When he comes back, Jaskier will only smile and ask if he enjoyed himself. Sometimes he will get caught up in a conversation with Edmund or he loses track of time visiting each horse in turn. On those occasions, Jaskier comes to collect him and slips Roach an extra treat.

And of course, they have a lot of sex. Gentle, tender sex with Geralt playing the part of a blushing virgin maid who could not define the word 'fuck' if tasked to do so. The last time Geralt had as many orgasms in a similar time period was the first winter after he survived the Trials and he was testing the limits of his new stamina. 

Jaskier is a generous and thorough lover and is extra delicate with Geralt to avoid a repeat of the night Geralt tore open his shoulder. Geralt enjoys the soft love-making and appreciates the consideration from his lover. However, Geralt would like to be a more active participant. He has spent far too much time on his back with Jaskier bringing them both over gently to avoid furthering Geralt's injury. The inability to be allowed to help is maddening. Geralt would like a turn taking care of everything for Jaskier, to make him the one to writhe with pleasure. Actually, Geralt has a very persistent fantasy of holding Jaskier aloft against any convenient wall and having him completely.

Geralt hopes that will happen sooner rather than later. His arm has nearly completely healed. If he were alone, he would've left days ago. Probably would've taken an additional healing potion and ridden out in search of simple contracts until he no longer bled when he swung his sword. Camped in the woods and hunted small game to stretch what coin he had. Resting in an inn until an injury completely heals is a luxury he doesn't often enjoy. He does have to admit, its healing faster than it would've if he had been caring for himself. And the scar, because it will scar, will be thin and flat as opposed to bulky and ragged. 

Even Jaskier acknowledges it's getting better. This morning he didn't even try to stop Geralt when he reached for the intimate oil and slicked up his fingers. Geralt only received a torrent of absolutely filthy encouragement from Jaskier's lips when Geralt's fingers breached his hole and began to work him open. Jaskier writhed obscenely in his lap and stroked Geralt all while keeping a commentary about exactly how much he enjoyed the Witcher's fingers in him and would Geralt please fuck him harder? Geralt came all over the both of them thinking about doing exactly that with a different bit of his anatomy, his spend mixing with Jaskier's and the oil Jaskier had used on their cocks. 

Geralt has really, really grown to appreciate the scent of this particular intimate oil over the past week.

It's been a good week with the promise of the next one being better, so of course, it goes to shit.

Jaskier is braiding Geralt's hair; he does it at least once or twice every day and Geralt loves every minute with Jaskier's gentle hands in his hair. He pulls a fine bone comb through Geralt's hair. His bard managed to purchase that and a few silver hair cuffs from a trading caravan passing through town to pick up goods. Geralt had told Jaskier he didn't need such things, and Jaskier glared at him and told him not to worry about the money. The townfolk didn't seem to note a Witcher being cowed by a bard's glare, but the trader did give them an odd look and a decent price. Later that evening, when Geralt was playing Gwent with his new 'friends', which now include the young blacksmith, married to Geralt's favorite laundress, and Gosia's sister, Ksenia, who dyes leather colors Geralt has never seen without the use of magic, a very smug Jaskier slips into his lap and tucks a very full coin purse onto Geralt's belt. Turns out the traders are more willing to tip the musician when they find out his Witcher cleared the path forward.

Geralt is holding the comb obediently and Jaskier is nearly finished with his last braid when Geralt's medallion shakes. It's not the gentle, happy thrum he has grown used to from the lute's protective enchantments but a full blown shudder. Someone powerful just did something, like a portal. It has to be a portal. It's enough for Jaskier to notice and drop his hand to the chain to feel.

"Someone opened a portal," Geralt translates the hum for Jaskier's benefit.

"Fucking bastard gotten off a toothless grave hag, I thought I'd have more time before dealing with this particular flavor of horse shit. Ugh," he groans like he has just been told his least favorite relative will be his responsibility to entertain for the next month. He doesn't sound alarmed, only annoyed and resigned to his fate. "I was hoping to put off seeing your witch for the next six months to approximately never but I never have been quite that fortunate."

Geralt has so many questions but the one that manages to come out is "Yennefer?"

"The great Yennefer of Vengerburg," Jaskier confirms, sounding not at all like he believes she is a 'great' anything. He is moving about, putting the final touches on his outfit as he speaks. "I'd be willing to bet my lute… Well, not my lute, I never bet it on principle you see, but I'd be willing to bet nearly anything else that is who just happened to portal into this tiny village that just happens to be our current residence."

He takes the comb from Geralt and pulls it through his own hair. "How do I look?" he asks, setting the comb down on the table.

"Beautiful," Geralt answers truthfully.

"Good, maybe she will lay off the comments about my crow's feet."

"You do not have crow's feet, Songbird," Geralt sighs. 

"And is your eyesight better than a trained sorceress out of Aretuza?" Jaskier retorts, clearly not focusing his own words.

Geralt can't help staring at Jaskier like he is an idiot. "Yes, Jaskier, my mutated eyesight is several times better than that of any non-mutant, and a sorceress is still human."

Jaskier makes a shocked little "oh," like he had completely forgotten Geralt is a mutant, and lights up. "You are truly the best, Geralt," he says and bends down to give Geralt a sweet, lingering kiss on the lips.

Jaskier sighs. "Come along darling, I have to go be a decent person and we should welcome Yennefer to this lovely little hamlet."

"Do I need my swords?" Geralt hasn't been carrying them in town, just a pair of daggers, but he is certain his arm would allow him to fight if necessary. Best to have them if his husband thinks they might need them.

"No, the worst thing she would do to  _ us _ is involve us in an orgy we haven't actually agreed to," he says dismissively. Geralt doesn't find the emphasis on 'us' reassuring. 

Jaskier pulls Geralt up and into his arms, smiling a little sadly. He kisses Geralt again, long and thorough. Geralt thinks this must be how Jaskier sends him off into the woods to kill a monster, as if he wants to remind Geralt he has something worth coming home to. Geralt holds him and kisses back and hopes this pre-hunt ritual makes it easier for Jaskier to deal with whoever is downstairs.

Jaskier breaks the kiss, looking at Geralt with a performer's smile that doesn't light up his face the way Geralt knows Jaskier's smiles should. "Alright, let's go before I decide being a good person be damned and selfishly drag you back to bed."

Jaskier links their hands and leads Geralt out the door before he can protest that going back to bed seems like a better idea than dealing with a sorceress that annoys Jaskier. Downstairs there is indeed a terrifyingly beautiful woman wearing an astonishing number of well-placed feathers asking the proprietress for information. His eyes tell him she is much too perfect to be anything but a sorceress. His medallion hums a confirmation.

"Yennefer," Jaskier says, not cordially exactly, but not maliciously either.

"The Great White Wolf and his pet bard," Yennefer snarls, "I would've thought you would have enough brains to avoid me after our last encounter."

"Yes, well, some of us travel without the use of magical assistance and arrive in town well before a note indicating your arrival is pinned on the notice board," Jaskier snarks.

Yennefer stares condescendingly, as if trying to decide if answering is worth her time. Her violet eyes sweep over Jaskier, then Geralt, raising an eyebrow at their still joined hands. "You look… different, Geralt."

She says 'different' like something in Geralt is broken or that she finds he is deficient, like he was more in whatever memory she had of him, like it's Jaskier's fault. Fuck that. He steps closer to Jaskier and gives her a smile that is little more than bearing his teeth. "Do I?"

It mostly comes out as a growl. She arches one perfect eyebrow. He feels her magic ping off the edges of his mind, like water meeting a windowpane. Nasty trick, trying to peek into his mind like that. She arranges her body into a deceptively neutral posture and comments, "the jewelry is nice but the haircut would not have been my first, second, or third choice."

Geralt glares and turns his head enough the stitches should be visible. If the motion lets him subtly run his nose through Jaskier's hair, so be it. Jaskier, for his part, still has the attitude of dealing with a relative who irritates you to no end. Like Lambert. Lambert is not a threat to Geralt, even when he deserves a thrashing, so this witch is probably not a threat to them. Therefore, Geralt does not finger the dagger on his hip.

Again, her magic subtly reaches out and finds no purchase. His medallion hums. "Alright," she concludes, switching her focus to Jaskier, "what the hell did you do to him?"

"Me?" Jasker exclaims indignantly. "Why do you assume it's me?"

"Because it's always you, Bard," she answers as if explaining to a child.

"Fuck off, it is not always me. Sometimes it's YOU," he accuses. Yennefer looks betrayed and like she is about to argue. Jaskier heaves a heavy sigh. 

"However," he says loudly over her attempt to protest, "there are some things we would like to discuss with a practitioner of your specialties. We have a room upstairs that's more fit for a private discussion, if you would be so kind." He makes a sweeping gesture with the hand not holding on to Geralt's.

"Fine," she spits out, already gliding up the stairs, "but if this is about your inability to get your prick to rise, I WILL cut it off and transfigure it into something useful."

Jaskier makes a rude gesture behind her back and tugs Geralt to follow her up the stairs. Geralt is actually quite offended on behalf of Jaskier's manhood. Granted, he has only a week's worth of memories, but it is very, very pretty and has always performed admirably and does not deserve such slander.

Yennefer walks into their room and settles herself in a chair next to the fire. Jaskier sits across from her on the bed. Geralt situates himself as close to Jaskier as he can manage without putting Jaskier in his lap. He curls an arm around Jaskier's back, offering what support he can. Even though Jaskier does not seem afraid of the sorceress, the pair clearly do not like each other. It also puts his hand in range of the dagger on Jaskier's hip, just in case they need it.

"Start talking, Bard," Yennefer demands, smoothing her skirts in false disinterest.

Jaskier clearly sees through the performance and responds to her charade with an exasperated eye roll. "To cut a long story down to its relevant bits, Geralt suffered a severe injury in dispatching the monster plaguing this town. The local healer assured us that the head wound would've killed anyone other than a Witcher and that some memory loss is to be expected. However, Geralt is missing more than six years with little sign of it coming back on its own."

Jaskier pauses, likely trying to gauge Yennefer's reaction. She seems interested yet trying very hard to pretend otherwise. Apparently Jaskier can also read her because he continues, "I'm sure such an interesting injury would be a puzzle someone as powerful and talented as yourself could surely solve…" Jaskier lets the complement hang in the air for a few seconds. "For a reasonable fee, of course," he finishes.

His bard is so clever. He knows how to talk to people to get them to do what he needs from them. It's obvious now that the sorceress will help; she looks interested, her eyes are sharp and assessing Geralt like a puzzle. He feels her magic again, tapping on the edges of his mind; she should know a Witcher would not have lowered his defenses.

"I'll see what I can do," she says with the air of someone performing a simple task. "As for my fee," she looks at Geralt, "I want you to tell me truthfully and precisely what happened with that damned wish."

"Ah ah ah," Jaskier breaks in, "you see, that's not possible for at least two reasons. Firstly, Geralt doesn't remember the events of that day, other than what I have told him. Secondly, and arguably more importantly, he does not remember you, therefore is missing the context to freely agree to provide any payment you desire. I'm afraid the guarantor for this particular exchange will have to be myself." 

Yennefer makes a dissatisfied "hmm" and looks at Jaskier like turning him into a slug would solve so many of her own problems. Jaskier does not seem intimidated, so Geralt guesses she wouldn't actually do anything. Not that Geralt would let her.

She places a hand on Geralt's face briefly, and he gets a bit of a memory, he and Roach camping in the woods, he was burning a contract from a noble asshole he refused to fulfill. He is not in the business of assassination, no matter how big the fee or how thin his current purse. It feels like it's from his life before Jaskier.

"Fine." Yennefer pulls her hand back and looks at Jaskier. "You're paying. I still want the truth. Namely, why you decided to spend your entire adult life traipsing around after a Witcher who barely tolerates you when you could have been the Court Bard in any kingdom in the North."

"You're not fair," Jaskier accuses, standing to look her in the eyes.

"Take it or leave it. I can fix him but only if you pay up," she stares straight back.

"Fine," Jaskier grits out. "But I'll be telling Geralt.  You will just have to listen."

Yennefer waves a hand, a clear indication to go ahead and not waste any more of her time. Jaskier completely turns his back on her and faces Geralt, grasping one of his hands.

"Geralt, my Witcher. I have written approximately twenty songs and an embarrassing number of sonnets for this particular occasion and they are all utter shite, and never deserve to see the light of day. However, they all come from the deep well of admiration and affection I have for you. To be quite blunt, I have followed you anytime I could, anywhere I could because I love you, wholly and without reservation. It's a condition that hasn't changed in two decades and at this point, I am certain it never will."

Jaskier looks so fragile, like he expects Geralt to protest. Like Geralt isn't his faithful husband who loves him so completely that even a fragmented memory cannot hide the emotion. Like Geralt, given only a week of spending time with him, wouldn't go pull the moon down and hand it to Jaskier if it would please him. Like Geralt doesn't hold him through each night just to make sure he is safe and warm and loved. What the hell?

Geralt stands and wraps his arms around his bard. "Of course you love me," Geralt says gently, "no one could care for me as you do without love." Jaskier looks even sadder as a result of Geralt's attempt to make him feel reassured. What…

"Jaskier," Yennefer says lightly, "you probably ought to know the gap in his memory spans a whole twenty-five years." She sounds pleased with herself. 

Geralt watches Jaskier do mental math. Fuck. Geralt is fucked.

Jaskier's eyes go wide as saucers and he shoves out of Geralt's arms forcefully, putting the room's width between them. "Fuck," Jaskier curses, "you don't remember me at all do you?" He looks heartbroken.

Geralt shakes his head sadly. "Only the bits of memory that have broken through," which are enough for Geralt. More than enough as long as Jaskier doesn't leave.

"Oh gods, I could've been anyone and you just went with me? Trusted me? Let me put my hands all over you... Oh gods we've had so much sex and you don't even know who I am and I am a horrible person. Fuck." Jaskier takes a breath and refocuses on Geralt, "Why? Why did you not tell me?"

"I didn't want to drive you away or make you doubt my affection for you as your husband." Now all of Geralt's cards are out. Hopefully his intentions are good enough to justify his actions.

"Don't be daft Geralt. If I was going to leave you, it would have been when you told the assembled nobility of the northern kingdoms that I was a bloody eunuch." Jaskier waves his hands in frustration. Geralt is not sure why he would lie and call Jaskier a eunuch, his bollocks are as they should be and working properly, but he must have had a good reason.

"I had wondered where that rumor got started," Yennefer contributes, tipping her head to peer at Jaskier's crotch and sounding so very pleased that the one good thing in Geralt's life is falling apart.

"Shut up Yennefer," Jaskier snaps. "You have caused enough chaos at the mo…" Jaskier trails off mid-word and looks back to Geralt. "Husband?" he asks, dumbfounded.

"Yes?' Geralt replies. They haven't yet used the title this week, but it's accurate all the same.

"Wait, no… Husband?" Jaskier looks so desperately confused. "But we aren't married!" he exclaims, throwing his hands up.

His poor husband, this is exactly why he didn't want to tell Jaskier the extent of his memory loss. Just because he doesn't remember it, does not make them any less married in Geralt's eyes. Maybe he would hold a different opinion if Jaskier was less wonderful, but he isn't and they are very much still married. Hopefully Jaskier will agree.

"Of course we are still married," Geralt starts in his most reassuring tone, which he may have perfected on wounded animals, "whether I remember it or not. You still wear my betrothal gift don't you?" Geralt gestures to the dagger on Jaskier's hip.

"Betrothal gift?" Jaskier scrambles to unfasten the dagger and sheath so he can inspect it in its entirety. He fiddles with the wolf's head on the pommel, looking at Geralt's medallion and back rapidly. "Fucking shit, this is a betrothal gift? You threw it at my head and said you got it for me so I don't die when you're not there to pull my ass from the fire!"

"I wanted to bind myself to you, of course I don't want you dead! You need to be safe when I'm working!" Why is Jaskier being deliberately obtuse? Gods help him.

"How was I supposed to know what you meant!" Jaskier screeches.

"I have no memory of it and the meaning is quite plain." Geralt huffs in frustration. Jaskier is still staring as Geralt as if he is spouting nonsense. Fine. On to the next thing. Geralt has a list. "Why do we share a bedroll on temperate evenings if we aren't married?"

"We just …" Jaskier starts, then stops and deflates. "After the mountain, I couldn't help but think you would disappear into the darkness while I slept and from the way you held me through each night, I assumed you felt much of the same. It's not like you to talk about things, Geralt."

Geralt crosses his arms and looks at Jaskier defiantly. "And we're not married?" clearly implying the opposite.

"Are we entirely sure Geralt's the only one who suffered a head injury? I could have a look at you as well…" Yennefer offers in a silky smooth voice. "Forgetting your own handfasting is quite problematic, especially for someone with your… preferences."

Geralt can watch the little tether to his bard's sense of self-preservation snap. Geralt knows that look, vague impressions of what Jaskier will do next come obligingly forth from his memory. Jaskier is about to start yelling at what feels like an incredibly powerful sorceress and deep down Geralt knows he isn't going to be able to stop it.

"Okay," Jaskier draws the word out, like a countdown to a race starting. "You know what?" Oh, Geralt desperately does not want Jaskier to finish whatever phrase is about to come forth from his mouth. 

"Fuck you, Yennefer of Vengerburg," Jaskier spits out full of venom. "You wanted truth as your payment, so consider this your bonus. I must tell you at one time, no, actually several times, the thought did occur to me that should circumstances have been different, we would have made fine friends. The kind of friends who affectionately call each other horrible things and stand unapproachable and beautiful together on the sidelines of fashionable balls and complain about anything that does not meet our exacting standards, of course. But good friends, splitting a bottle of wine and catching-up, gossiping, and laughing so long you end up drinking the next directly from the bottle friends. The kind that make life exciting and enjoyable." He smiles bitterly at the thought. 

"However," Jaskier resumes his lecture, "you had the thing I desperately wanted through very little effort of your own and I was dreadfully jealous. And I think, given my penchant for self-torment, I could've gotten over even that and been friends anyway had you just treated him more kindly," he says, condemnation clear in his last words.

"Me?" Yennefer screeches indignantly, looking as if Jaskier had needled an old wound not yet healed, hurt and no small amount defensive. "I am the injured party in all this. I am not the one who made a foolish binding wish and took another's agency!"

"Yet you were terrible to each other before you even knew that bit of truth! And I was terrible right along with you because I found it exceedingly easy to resent you solely and forgive the man I've been in love with for two decades! However, I never claimed to be anything other than deeply flawed." He moves his hands in a finishing gesture. 

Jaskier draws in a ragged breath and lets it out slowly. He is quiet as he speaks again, "I've paid your price Yen. I'm done here. Fix our Witcher." 

He leaves the room, dropping the dagger on the bed. Geralt can hear the beginnings of a sob as Jaskier hastily retreats down the hall. Geralt tries to follow but Yennefer firmly grabs his wrist and turns him back. 

"No," she commands, staring at Geralt with determined focus and bringing up a hand to slap Geralt sharply on the forehead. He can feel the push of her magic and his body falling back onto the bed as the darkness engulfs him.


	9. Memory Returned

Geralt wakes up. He is lying on a stone floor in a round room with a remarkable stained glass ceiling. As he sits up, he can tell the room is a convergence of several hallways, lit by the light filtering in through the ceiling and sconces heading down each of the hallways. Yennefer is already standing in the room wearing different clothes from before; now she stands in deep aubergine velvet with magical stars twinkling across its surface in a replication of the night sky, complete with a shooting star streaking periodically across her skirt. If the dress is doing that, wherever Geralt finds himself isn't real.

Geralt stands, noticing for the first time that he is completely naked. At least it's not cold here; even the stone floor is a comfortable temperature. He looks around and finds no sign of his clothes. "Where the fuck are my clothes, Yennefer?"

"Well Geralt," Yennefer looks at him appraisingly, "we may be in the vault of your memory, but the construct that allows us to access it is mine. And frankly, I enjoy this aesthetic for you."

"Hmm," Geralt replies, dissatisfied with the answer. He has been nude in worse situations, so he can handle this for the sake of his memory returning. He runs a hand through his hair, finding it loose and with no shorn bits from the stitches; also changed to fit Yennefer's preferences. He misses the braids. 

Yennefer crosses the room to an imposing door, heavy and locked, with a decorative silver handle and keyhole. "Behind this," she explains laying a hand on the door, "should be all of the years that you are missing. What's going on is quite a bit more complicated than what is shown here, but the metaphor works well enough. A less powerful sorceress would need spells and rituals to open your memories," she smirks at Geralt, "but this is my construct and I have given myself the key."

She pulls a silver key, nearly the length for her forearm, from the sleeve of her dress. She puts it in the keyhole and uses both hands to turn it until Geralt can hear the heavy click of the tumblers moving.

"Come here," she directs, gesturing to the door. "Open it."

Geralt turns the handle and pushes the door. It is solid, heavy, and reluctant to budge. Either this is the most stubborn door he has ever encountered or he does not have his mutated strength available in this strange place.

"Go on," Yennefer encourages impatiently.

Geralt turns the handle again and uses his shoulder on the door, digging his bare toes into the stone for purchase and putting his weight behind the push. This time, it gives way, flinging against the corridor wall and the hinge breaking. Geralt is left looking down a corridor, much like any other that connects to the circular room.

"That's it?" he asks of Yennefer. He was expecting something more dramatic. A flood of memory perhaps, like when Jaskier asked for three words' review. Maybe for his head to hurt. As it is, he's just looking down an unremarkable corridor.

"Yes," she stares at Geralt, displeased with his lack of enthusiasm. "You do actually have to try and remember something you know. It's not like anything was gone and you have to relive it to get it back." She looks at him again. "You could, I suppose, walk the corridor and remember everything in the order you lived it. You would end up back here eventually."

Geralt thinks of the dagger. Now he can remember commissioning it, fifteen years ago or so. He procured an ingot of blade-worthy silver and took it to the bladesmith on his way to Kaer Morhen for the winter. The man smiled when he entered the shop, Geralt can remember when his grandfather ran the shop and worked the forge. A girl of not more than twelve sat on the counter, his daughter. Geralt also knows she is now a grown woman and forges blades worthy of any Witcher. The bladesmith asked what he wanted. 

_"A dagger. Pretty, but usable."_

_"Not for you then," the bladesmith said kindly, taking the ingot. "Anything I should know about the intended recipient?"_

_"He's a bard. With hands,"_ Geralt winces at how awkward his past self was, _"plays the lute. Refuses to wear a weapon if it clashes with his clothes. Keeps following me on hunts and needs a silver weapon to keep him safe."_

_The bladesmith smiled knowingly. "I can make this as pretty as anything a jewelsmith ever turned out and strong enough to take down a beast. He'll wear it for you. Any particular motif for the decoration?"_

_"Put a wolf on it," Geralt said, clearly embarrassed._

_"What's your sweetheart's name?" asked the girl brightly._

_"Jaskier."_

"Remember something good?" Yennefer asks, actually sounding interested.

"You could say that." Because it is a good memory. The bladesmith and his daughter clearly thought Geralt would be proposing with it. Lambert took one look at it and gave him so much shit when he picked it up in the early spring, Geralt shoved it in his saddle bag, tucking it away safely until he met Jaskier again. He did actually throw it at Jaskier later that month, but at his chest, not at his head as Jaskier had claimed.

"Going to walk the corridor?" Yennefer tips her head to look at Geralt, waiting for his answer.

"I don't know."

"Suit yourself, I'm going for a walk while you are attempting to make a decision," she says, striding off down the corridor. 

Geralt should probably be more concerned about that. He has no idea what she will gain by walking through his memory. He is preoccupied though, trying to figure out if he should walk forward. It would make sense, to walk forward, remember everything all in one go so nothing from the past catches him off guard. 

But…

Without that though, he had Jaskier. Without twenty years of convincing himself he is too damaged and not worth Jaskier's attention, that Jaskier can, has, and should do better, he could accept affection. Jaskier loves him, that declaration was no lie, despite Geralt forcing himself to push Jaskier away at every opportunity. That course of action was clearly not working because immediately when he met Jaskier without the benefit of memory, the most logical assumption was Geralt had married. 

He could just stay here, well not physically here, he would like to get back to the real world in the near future, but stay here with the door open and try to salvage this thing with Jaskier. Try to cobble together more good days instead of merely surviving. Get Jaskier a horse and go to the coast, actually marry him this time if that's what it takes. Talking about it will be unavoidable; Geralt grimaces at the thought. But it's worth the trouble, for a chance of getting his husband back.

Fuck. All of this would have been easier if he had just given in somewhere around year five or seven or ten. If he had admitted to himself Jaskier was not going to leave and buckled under the relentless assault of companionship and songs and caretaking instead of digging his heels in like a particularly stubborn ass, refusing to move. How much fucking time did he waste being callous and lying to himself about the existence of his own feelings?

Then again, Jaskier might say no. He should say no. Geralt has probably burned all of his chances. But it worked for a week so Geralt should try. Right? And when it all blows up in his face perhaps Yennefer will bring him back to this place and he can walk the corridor and remind himself why he never should have tried in the first place. Remind himself that being cruel was kinder in the end.

He thinks of Jaskier waking up the first morning Geralt found him after their fight during the dragon hunt. The night before, Geralt found him so drunk he could barely stand and had carried him back to his rented room, using the key in Jaskier's pocket to let them in. Jaskier had passed out so Geralt stripped him down so he would be comfortable, tucked him into the single bed, and meditated through the night.

_Jaskier was slow to wake. Geralt heard the change in his breathing although he had barely moved. "G'rlt?" he asked instinctively, because Jaskier had not rolled over enough to see anything but the wall, provided his eyes were open, which Geralt doubted. "Coffee?"_

_"I'll get you some," Geralt replied quietly, in deference to the headache Jaskier was surely suffering._

_"You're a good friend," Jaskier said, still facing the wall._

When Geralt returned Jaskier was awake and he carried on as if their fight and time apart had not happened. Geralt followed his lead and did the same. Their first night on the road, Geralt used both of their bedrolls and blankets to make a single bed, large enough for them both. Jaskier watched him, looking a bit relieved and saying nothing. He joined Geralt in their new sleeping arrangement without hesitation or complaint. And they kept each other closer than before but never actually talked about anything. Geralt knows he can't get away with doing only that again.

Unexpectedly, Geralt falls to his knees.

_He was kneeling in a collapsing house. Yennefer was desperately fighting a losing battle and the Djinn was not going to spare her. Geralt did not know exactly what she planned to accomplish by absorbing… trapping… hosting… the Djinn, but she did not deserve to die for her hubris._

_He had mere moments to act; the Djinn was winning and Yennefer was dying and he did the only thing he could think of. He used the last wish, using it to keep Yennefer safe, saying he wanted her to stay so the Djinn wouldn't kill her due to an errant word as it had tried to do with Jaskier. Fuck. If he can save her, the wish is not a waste. At least she will fucking be alive to resent him._

"I'll be damned," he hears Yennefer comment. She appears back at his side, returned from her trip through his memory. "I would have wagered money that you were lying. You really did only intend to save my life."

"It was ripping you apart," he says, standing back up, "you didn't deserve to die, Yen."

"I had it handled," she snaps, then adds more gently, "seeing what you saw though, I can understand your mistake and why you made that particular wish. And that the Djinn grossly twisted your original intent."

"I really did just want to save you; I did not want to take your freedom," he reiterates. 

"Now I know that that is not a lie," she agrees, staring down the corridor.

"You were always going to go searching for that memory. Why put Jaskier through all of that back in the room when it gained you nothing?"

"He offered to pay and I thought it would be entertaining at minimum, maybe embarrass him a little." She sighs a little regretfully, "I wasn't expecting things to go that way. I didn't expect him to feel so much. And you must understand, I couldn't not look into your memory. I needed to know."

Geralt bites back his first retort. She very well could have not gone through his memory. But once Yen decides something, it is very difficult to get her to change course. Pointing that out won't actually change anything. "Do you have what you need?" 

"Yes," she answers softly. "Are you going to walk the hall?"

Geralt remembers Jaskier laughing and covered in flour. He remembers Jaskier feeding Roach some carrot ends and slipping his hand into Geralt's as they watched her enjoy her treat. And he remembers waking up after yesterday's afternoon nap with Jaskier singing snatches of what he vehemently denied being a love song.

Geralt shakes his head. "No, I can remember things when I have need. That is enough."

"Alright," Yennefer replies, judging him for something, although he is not sure what exactly. She walks to the center of the room and stamps her foot firmly into the floor. The room and corridors begin to crumble away, leaving only darkness.


	10. Resolutions

Geralt wakes up. He and Yennefer are laying side by side, crosswise on the bed in the inn. Geralt, thankfully, is still fully clothed; a touch to his hair verifies it is all as Jaskier left it. They are back in the real world at least. 

Fuck. He doesn't know how much time has passed, but he should go find Jaskier. Each memory examined in that place seemed to pass in real time to Geralt; it could have been hours. He spots Jaskier's lute case sitting in its habitual corner, maybe it hasn't been that long; Jaskier would never leave it.

"How long?" Geralt asks, sitting up. His hand finds the dagger sitting on the bed next to him, left where Jaskier had dropped it. He picks it up.

"Mmm," Yen stretches, she is looking a bit tired, "not more than a quarter hour at the most. Time moves funnily when you're in someone's mind." She covers a yawn and sits up. "Wasn't expecting to have to mess about in your head after portaling here. I think I'd like a drink."

"Why are you here?" Other than the accidental, unbreakable bond a Djinn forged for us, Geralt wisely does not add.

She stands and arranges her hair so as not to look anything less than perfect. She talks as she works, "there is an ingredient that only grows in this area. Most people dye leather with it but it has other useful properties if you are skilled enough to work with it. Usually, I can get the small amount I need from one of the better connected dye shops, but apparently the supply has been disrupted lately. I didn't want to wait, so I came to the source."

"I took care of the supply problem. Since you're already here, you might as well go talk to Gosia," he gestures to the right of the building, "lives down the grass path. House with an enviable herb garden in front." He could send her directly to Ksenia, but if she needs whatever it is in its raw state, Gosia would know how to best obtain it. Geralt looks at her seriously, "be nice; she's a friend."

"I didn't know you had friends, Geralt," she comments, some of the nastiness from before visiting Geralt's memory having left her tone.

"I'm trying something new," he laughs a little, thinking of Jaskier's insistence on calling every person he has played Gwent with in the past week his friend. He looks at her meaningfully, "it's working out so far."

"Hm," she makes a haughty noise, but pauses with her hand on the door. The hesitation indicates at least some of his intent came through. "Don't die, Geralt," she instructs in lieu of a more traditional farewell, pulling the door shut behind her.

Well, that was nicer than he could've realistically expected from Yen. She only ever truly let her guard down when they were in bed together and there was no one to see her be soft. She would often portal away before he could experience waking up together. They're bound together, which is something they cannot readily change, maybe he can salvage some tentative friendship between them instead of open hostility. Both of their lives would be more pleasant if they did not dread their unavoidable next meeting. He has tried at least.

Geralt rubs a hand over his face. Breaking down doors in one's own mind is more tiring than an activity not using his actual body has a right to be. He's fiddling with the dagger; he really shouldn’t have talked himself out of making it into a betrothal gift. He knew when he picked it up that it was perfect. Having a month to turn the idea over in his head resulted in his preemptively deciding Jaskier would laugh at such an offer.

Jaskier. Fuck. He needs to go find him.

Geralt locks the door when he leaves. It won't actually keep Jaskier out of the room, he is distressingly good at picking locks of all sorts, but it might slow him down long enough for Geralt to find him. Geralt takes the dagger with him, more because his hands refuse to put it down than due to any purposeful thought.

He has no idea where Jaskier headed after Yen knocked him out. He's going to have to track Jaskier by scent, in town. Geralt grimaces. He generally avoids tracking anything by scent in town if he can help it; it makes it easier to ignore the often unpleasant amalgamation of odors that accompany dense human settlements. This is a small town, so it shouldn't be too bad. 

Jaskier's scent is everywhere downstairs. Fuck. He's going to have to go outside and check around the building to find which way he went. Jaskier would laugh at him circling the building like a hunting dog, teasing that just because he is from the School of the Wolf, it doesn't make him an actual puppy. But Jaskier is elsewhere. At least the townsfolk can talk about the Witcher acting odd as today's gossip.

Edmund is standing near the bar with his wife, the proprietress, whose name Geralt really should learn, having a conversation that is about Yennefer and her dramatic fashion choices. He sees Geralt and calls him over before he can go outside to start tracking. The proprietress does not look pleased so he makes his way over. 

"So, that ill-tempered sorceress left," the proprietress begins, giving Geralt a distrustful look. "Was she your love affair or Jaskier's?"

"What," Geralt states flatly.

"Well, considering my Lidia here said the two of you headed upstairs with her and shortly after your bard headed into my barn like he was leaving a ghost behind, she was someone's ex-something," Edmund replies.

Geralt supposes he deserves this, for making connections and having friends. "She's my very much former lover," he answers, stressing the word 'former' and hoping that would be enough to satisfy them.

"Does Jaskier know that?" the proprietress, Lidia, asks, arching an eyebrow at him. She looks like she approves of his answer but finds his handling of the entire situation lacking. She is not wrong. 

Geralt doesn't actually know if Jaskier realizes that or not. Best not to admit that to the angry lady who owns the inn they are currently living in and is also Jaskier's friend. "They don't get on well," he covers, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

"Then I suggest you talk to him and make sure he knows where your affections lie. He was very upset on his way out back. I would wager he needs to hear it again from your own mouth," Lidia tells him sternly.

That's actually not bad advice. Geralt is going to take it and hopefully Jaskier will still be receptive to Geralt's attentions. "I'll make sure to tell him," he tells her, earning an approving nod.

"Lidia always has good advice," Edmund informs him, getting him a smile from his wife. "Jaskier hasn't left the barn that I've seen. I'll be going down the way to check on the children, and see Anton about getting some of the horses shod, and maybe stop by the bakery, and possibly check on the children again, so I won't be back to check on the horses for a while," he adds, like he isn't hastily inventing errands to give Geralt and Jaskier space. It's kind.

"Best make sure the children haven't found another monster head," Geralt agrees, nodding his head in thanks. "I'll just go check on Jaskier," he tells them and heads out the back door, which is closest to the stables.

Geralt can hear Jaskier talking to Roach before he enters through the open aisle door. He sounds like he has been crying, his voice rough and giving little sniffles between the words, or even mid-word.

"Gods know I tried, sweet girl. I thought that maybe, just maybe something was going to work out for us. Turns out I'm rather silly." Geralt can picture him, one hand on Roach's nose and the other rubbing her neck; he's seen him do that countless times. Jaskier continues talking, "but that's alright, you're still the prettiest mare I know, and everything's going to be fine. I might have to go away for a while, a long while actually, and I will miss you and your daddy terribly, but you're gonna take good care of him for me. You're gonna do that."

Fuck.

Going away is the last thing Geralt wants Jaskier to do. He walks in and can not see Jaskier at all; he must be in the stall with Roach. She pricks her ears forward in greeting when she sees Geralt, but Jaskier has his back to the aisle and doesn't notice his presence.

"I know, I don't want to leave either. But I am afraid I've been a terrible friend to your daddy and he probably doesn't want to see me right now," Jaskier sniffs and keeps talking, "or ever again. Not that I blame him. I misunderstood some things and took horrible advantage of his situation, like some kind of monster. Gods, I am stupid. He's probably upstairs with Yennefer happily…" he trails off, finally turning enough to notice Geralt at the stall door.

"Geralt!" he exclaims, quickly dabbing at his eyes and wiping his nose on the cuff of his sleeve, trying to hide the outward signs of his upset. His eyes are puffy, his nose is red, he is absolutely covered in horse hair, and given all of that, Geralt still thinks he is the most beautiful man he has ever seen. Judging by the amount of horse hair, Roach must have received several hugs while Jaskier was visiting. "I thought you would still be with Yennefer."

"She went to see Gosia about potion ingredients," he says simply, because they don't really need to be talking about Yen right now.

"Oh, I'm sure Gosia can hold her own. And your memories?" he asks delicately, as if the question might upset Geralt.

"Accessible," Geralt answers, explaining the nuances of what that entails isn't really what is important right now. If Jaskier wants the story he can explain later, provided Geralt gets a 'later.'

"Ah, that's wonderful, Geralt." Jaskier does not sound like he thinks it is actually wonderful. He tries to slide out past Geralt, who leans against the door so it doesn't budge. "If you could just let me by, I can collect my things and be out of your hair."

"No."

"No?"

"I meant what I said, Jaskier." Geralt is not good at this so it's probably best to get straight to the point. "Even though I didn't remember how I fell in love with you, the feeling itself came through with perfect accuracy."

"Could you," Jaskier looks like Geralt isn't quite speaking Common, "could you just repeat that bit in words that make sense?"

Geralt sighs. Stubborn bard. "I love you and don't want you to leave."

"You don't?"

"No. I would very much like to go back to being your husband if that's alright with you." At least Geralt was good at that part; they were happy.

"If that's alright with…" Jaskier says faintly. "You do remember we were never actually married. Your damaged brain just made assumptions."

"Should've been." Geralt holds the dagger out, offering it to Jaskier over the stall door. "Shouldn't have talked myself out of giving this to you properly the first time."

Jaskier takes the dagger, holding it like he has never seen it before. "And are you? Giving it to me properly, I mean."

"Yes, if you'll accept." Geralt doesn't want to pressure him into anything, but Geralt might actually argue if he says anything but yes.

"I mean," Jaskier gives a watery laugh, "it wasn't thrown at my head, but I suppose I will anyway."

"I can, if it means that much to you," Geralt teases, reaching to take the dagger back.

Clutching it to his chest, Jaskier responds, "no! Absolutely not. You can't take it back." He looks at Geralt, then adds hesitatingly, "but what about Yennefer?"

"Hmm," Geralt sighs. The two relationships are not equivalent in any way. "Due to the magic of the Djinn, we will always share a bond. It's unavoidable."

Jaskier looks defeated. "I'm sorry Geralt, I just can't go back to… not after today. Not after knowing for certain that you know all I feel. I can't go back to pretending to myself that you don't."

"No. Fuck." How can he explain this so Jaskier understands? He reaches over, taking Jaskier's hand and holding it gently between his own. "When I first woke up, laying in the mud and unable to stand, Cat making my vision gray, I knew with certainty the color of your eyes. Every single fragment of memory that I regained before this afternoon contained something of you, only ever you." He makes sure to look Jaskier in his very blue eyes so he can know how sincerely Geralt means this. "As if you were the sole thing worth remembering."

"That is incredibly romantic of you," Jaskier is smiling again, sweetly, the kind of smile that Geralt has earned on lazy mornings and afternoon walks for the past week. "Or romantic of your trauma at least."

Geralt smiles back, relieved. Then he kisses Jaskier because he's happy and because he can and it feels like everything might finally be alright.

"So, I don't have to worry about Yennefer of Vengerburg finally snapping and turning me into something small and foul and easy to crush under the heel of her boot in a fit of jealousy?" Jaskier is an expert at hiding his insecurities in jest.

"No, we are done with that," Geralt answers plainly so that Jaskier will not misunderstand. Whatever he and Yen are to each other it's not what they were trying to be before. And Geralt would not let her hurt Jaskier if she ever had the inclination.

"And you won't be storming off, leaving me behind, or otherwise abandoning me in the middle of the wilderness in a fit of temper?" Jaskier checks.

"No, that was wrong of me, those words were untrue and I regret those actions. I will not be repeating the mistake," Geralt says, forcing out the words. Words are important to Jaskier and Geralt has learned to at least try. "I promise, I'll come back for you. "

Jaskier is quiet for a moment, but does not take his hand back from Geralt. "So… Husband?" Jaskier asks in a contemplative tone.

"Yes?" Geralt relaxes, knowing that Jaskier accepts him despite his past actions. It feels good to have that title again, and rightfully this time. 

"Wait!" Jaskier looks alarmed. "How do Witchers get married?"

"Well, my husband, I don't think any have tried it before." True, Geralt was sad previously that he could not remember his own handfasting, but he had assumed Jaskier would've wanted one. Geralt is content for them to just call each other husband, no ceremony necessary. None of the gods are interested enough in the affairs of Witchers for a formal ceremony to matter. As long as they agree they are married, they are.

"Geralt," Jaskier asks slowly, "are we married?"

"Yes, Songbird," Geralt laughs.

Jaskier blinks, eyes wide. "Did… Did we just get married in a horse stable? Geralt! Did you let me get married IN A HORSE STABLE? Of course you did. You see nothing wrong with this. I am covered in horse hair! Sweet Melitele, what am I going to do with you?" He covers his face with his hands. 

Geralt opens the stall and tugs Jaskier out and into his arms. "I didn't want to waste any more time."

"Fuck off, I'm the bard here and you're not allowed to be more romantic than me." Jaskier kisses him again. "Also," he taps the dagger hilt against Geralt for emphasis, "you owe me the handfasting ceremony of my choosing, because while I do not object to being already married, we are not going to tell anyone that it happened in a stable, next to your horse, when I had been inconsolably crying for the previous half hour." 

"Anything you choose," Geralt agrees, because there really is no point in pretending he isn't going to do it anyway. He does all kinds of bullshit to make Jaskier happy and that isn't going to change. Jaskier deserves this.

Jaskier points a finger at him. "Not even Eskel," Jaskier threatens. 

"Not even Eskel," Geralt agrees. He probably won't tell Eskel, at least not until Jaskier is well out of earshot. 


	11. Epilogue

It is Geralt and Jaskier's last night in town. Geralt's shoulder has healed and Gosia removed the stitches in his scalp earlier today. She probably could have done that yesterday, but after the emotional upheaval surrounding Geralt getting his memory back, Geralt and his husband spent the remainder of the day in bed, with suprisingly little sex. They spent the hours talking and cuddling and generally affirming their relationship; neither particularly wanted to let the other out of their sight.

Tomorrow, they will head to a neighboring town, half a day or so away, who have livestock going missing and have posted for a Witcher's services. It also happens to be along the route to a coastal town Jaskier mentioned wanting to visit. There's a larger town a little farther along the path that Edmund assures Geralt has a thriving horse market. He gave Geralt a few names of traders who are good men with fair prices who would likely have something suited to Jaskier's temperament. It will also have several venues that would welcome a performer of Jaskier's quality.

Tonight, the barroom is packed. Jaskier is on a chair again, singing anything but 'Toss a Coin.' Geralt promised he wouldn't complain when Jaskier sings it to the crowds in the next few towns if Jaskier skipped it tonight. Geralt might regret that bargain later, but seeing Jaskier happy will make up for the coin projectiles.

Geralt is sitting at his usual table in the corner, surrounded by his friends and playing Gwent, for the usual stakes of course. Geralt has just beaten Anton the blacksmith and Emil kindly brought a pitcher of ale over to the table, and no one said anything when he nestled a chair up against the wall, out of the sightlines of his mother. Geralt is going to miss them; he will have to make sure the Path leads him close to here often enough to check in.

Gosia and Ksenia make their way over, the latter sitting on Oskar since there is no chair available. He squawks indignantly, but forgives easily as she starts hinting which cards he should play. Borys shakes his head and comments that Edmund might actually have to pay attention to his game now.

Gosia leans against Geralt's chair and tells him, "I meant to give this to your bard earlier, but he stopped to play with Alina and her kitten while I was doing work and it slipped my mind."

She hands him a small, round object, not unlike a jewelry box with a woven star embossed on the top. His medallion hums faintly when he nudges the lid with his thumb. It's as if he can feel that the magic belongs to Yennefer. "A xenovox?"

"Yennefer left it after she visited. Asked me to pass it along to Jaskier and tell him 'to call the next time he needs a friend to be beautiful with' which I suppose means something to the two of you," she says with the phrasing of the question and the tone of a statement.

"It does," Geralt confirms. He gives the xenovox one more look and tucks it safely away. Hopefully this is a peace offering and means an end to open hostility. Possibly even the beginnings of an alliance of sorts.

"She is a very beautiful woman. I greatly enjoyed her company the other afternoon," Gosia comments with a quirk of her lips. Geralt knows that look. That is the look of someone who has enjoyed some pleasant hours in the company of Yennefer while in bed. Gosia resembles a cat who has enjoyed a particularly delicious mouse, so he reasons there was no harm done. Geralt is not going to tell Jaskier his favorite local healer tumbled his least favorite sorceress.

"She is a stunning conversationalist," Geralt says with a hint of sarcasm, because he seriously doubts there was much talking involved. Gosia laughs and slips off to get another drink.

"My good friends," Jaskier crows from his place atop the chair, his arms spread wide. He is relaxed and smiling and yet again might as well not be wearing his doublet, or his chemise for the amount of coverage they provide. "You have been such a lovely audience all week, I thought I would debut my latest composition about a very unfortunate Gwent game of mine that was broken up by a monster hunt."

Oh. Oh no, the wyvern in Posada is now a song. Damn that thing for running toward town after Geralt tracked it down. Geralt drops his head into his hand and rubs at the bridge of his nose.

Borys looks over at him and asks, "have you heard what's coming?"

"No," Geralt admits from behind his hand, "but I know what event he is referring to. It's not likely to be flattering for me."

Borys claps him on the shoulder reassuringly. Geralt looks up in time to watch Jaskier leap off the chair and land on the floor with a solid thud. He uses it as the first beat as he begins to pound out what is shaping up to be a drinking song.

The tune is lively and catchy and Jaskier aims for volume with his voice, filling the room with sound. Before the end of the first verse, most of the bar is clapping or stomping along to the beat. By the second chorus, people are picking up the words.

_And the wyvern hated Gwent,  
So through the wall he went,  
Landing on the table,  
Now our game is on the floor. _

_After him the White Wolf came,  
Crashing through the same,  
Jumping on the wyvern,  
And they're scuffling in the floor. _

_The barroom's quite a mess,  
We expected nothing less,  
From the Witcher and the wyvern,  
Who are rolling out the door! _

Geralt does not bang his head against the wood of the table, even though it is the natural reaction to Jaskier's antics. He has heard enough of what Jaskier writes and sings to know what will catch on. Almost anything Jaskier performs these days becomes a success, he is the premier bard on the Continent, but this is going to spread like wildfire. Like Toss a Coin but with a more inebriated target audience. Geralt will never hear the end of this song. 

_The barroom's quite a mess,  
We expected nothing less,  
Thank Geralt of Rivia,  
That the wyvern is no more! _

By the time Jaskier concludes, the entire bar is singing the chorus. Fuck.

Borys amiably elbows Geralt and asks, "And how exactly accurate is that one?"

"I'm not sure the wyvern cared either way about the men's card game, but Jaskier stood to win a significant sum in the game and was cross the game was ended prematurely by my monster hunt. I fear I shall never hear the end of it now," Geralt sighs. "There was also much less property damage involved."

"At least it's a good song," Emil offers optimistically.

"Jaskier always writes a good song," Geralt says proudly, "I just like it better when he's not immortalizing his annoyance with me."

Borys pats his arm again. "At least you know he is thinking of you."

Jaskier is smirking at him and Geralt does his best to glower back. He knows it doesn't reach his eyes, but to anyone else it would be convincing. Jaskier, the bastard, laughs at him, grabbing a goblet of wine from Lidia and making a mocking toast. Then he blows Geralt a kiss with a wink and a dramatic flourish. Gods, he is such an asshole and Geralt loves him.

"Ugh," Oskar complains, looking exactly as he had when his parents were being sweet earlier in the evening.

"Hush, it's cute," Ksenia scolds him gently. "This next," she tells him, tapping a card in his hand with a fingernail. Oskar obediently lays it down.

"It's good to see people happy," Edmund comments, playing his next card and looking over at Geralt significantly. 

Geralt is certain he received a full report from his wife about Jaskier and Geralt when they came in from their talk in the stable. They were disheveled and mussed and so, so happy. They were married and in love; the relief and joy bubbling over like a pot left too long on the fire. Lidia looked them over and did not act surprised in the least when Jaskier asked for their meals to be sent up. 

"Hmm," Geralt agrees, giving a small nod. Because it is good to actually be happy. Geralt glances at his husband on the other side of the room.

Jaskier smiles in return and starts another song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just thank you to everyone for reading. Everyone has been so kind and the kudos and comments have meant so much and have been amazing and motivational and I love each and every one <3

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Amariahellcat and HeavensCrack for beta reading and for their indispensible help and encouragement as I worked on this.


End file.
